


Knight at the Museum

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson shows his other side, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Greg is a teacher, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Museum AU, Mycroft is Sweet, Mycroft is a Museum Director, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Teacher AU, We now have a x-over with both Lewis and 007, in which Jim is a good guy, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2018-12-10 00:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 84,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11680644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: Mycroft is the newly appointed and youngest Director of The Sherinford, a prestigious museum somewhere in England. Greg is a newly qualified teacher, with a tragic past and a change of career.





	1. Those Who Can, Teach.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my new AU, thank you for reading. I have edited, changed names, done a little more plot work, so hopefully this may be better...

Mycroft swept a hand out in front of him, encompassing the dimly lit gallery surrounding himself and his guest. “As you can see, Mr Smith, our collections of Bronze Age artifacts are quite extensive. I am sure you will find ample material for your PhD. If there is anything in our stores that you may wish to study also, then do not hesitate to contact my curatorial team. They shall be only too happy to help.”

His guest simpered a little. Mycroft instinctively detested him. “You are too kind, Director Holmes. This is exceptional, really. I am more than looking forward to furthering my studies here.” He was a man of middle years, somewhat stereotypically professorial (tweeds and brogues) as well as being (in Mycroft’s opinion) overly camp and Mycroft was somehow uncharacteristically disappointed as well as mildly disgusted. “May one ask,” the man was saying, “how are you settling in? The University was very sad to hear of Jonathan’s...retirement.” Jonathan Gilroy, Mycroft’s predecessor, had retired due to ill-health. He had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia, and although he had been an innovative and charming man, his latter years had seen a definite lack of direction and a relaxing of the rules at The Sherrinford. “I do hope the staff have been helpful…”

“Oh yes, they were very welcoming,” Mycroft assured, wanting to wind up this meeting and escape to the safety of his office. “Anthea, my PA, has been very accommodating.”

“Oh good, that’s...very good,” the man cooed. “Well, should you need help with settling in, you know, if you need pointers to a good pub or restaurant, please think of me as a friend you can turn to…”

“Thank you.” Mycroft cringed inwardly. “Most generous of you. Now, if you’ll forgive me,” he checked his watch, “I have a video conference with the V&A that I really must attend. Good luck with your studies.” He turned his back and strode off with a mental shudder. _Did that man really just try to come on to me?_ It might have been a friendly offer but… Mycroft suppressed another shudder. Not his type at all. 

He had only recently taken up his position of Director at The Sherrinford Museum after having been head-hunted from a more junior role in the British Museum. Director of The Sherrinford was a prestigious position on his way up the curatorial ladder and so far Mycroft was content. At 35 he was the youngest Director in the Museum’s history and he was aiming to make his mark upon it. It was everything a traditional museum should be; a place of tranquility, of academia, with a reputation for excellence. Its collections were of international renown and a source of national pride. 

Not everything on the horizon was so serene however. Gilroy’s complete lack of leadership in the last couple of years had taken its toll. The staff were helpful and appeared competent but had suffered from a severe lack of discipline and a haphazard approach to just about everything. Mycroft was there to make changes, and while the staff had at first been eager to meet their new boss it quickly became apparent that he was not there to make friends. Indeed, Mycroft had done his best to implement new rules and changes that not all the staff were happy about. 

He paused in the central atrium, trying to bring back his equilibrium before returning to work. The building was truly magnificent, the glass dome above allowing light into the area, showing off the Gothic arches in the stonework and the mock-medieval tiles on the floor, colours almost as bright as they had been over a century and a half ago. The sweeping staircases behind the main desk lead into the deeper recesses of the galleries that contained everything from Maori war clubs to Mary Quant dresses. It was a museum that owned First World War uniforms, Bernard Leach pottery, Scandinavian glass from the 1950s and shrunken heads from the Shuar people of Peru. Its Bronze Age pottery was among the best in the world and they hosted a coin hoard from the Viking era found less than twenty miles east. It was a museum to be proud of, but it badly needed bringing into the 21st century. 

Mycroft was very aware that he was making a few enemies on the staff. Philip Anderson, head of the Conservation team, had more than once been less than professional concerning the speed with which the changes were being implemented, not to mention being very vocal concerning the “draconian rules” that were being “forced on them,” in his opinion. Mycroft kept a weather eye open for any more dissension from that quarter. Anderson was not alone in his thinking either. Sally Donovan was curator of 20th Century History and she was more subtle but just as obstructive in her own way. Thankfully, Anthea Mallory, his PA, was frankly amazing and worth her weight in gold. It was she who had almost single-handedly facilitated his transition as Director as smoothly as possible. He owed her a bonus. 

At least Mike Stamford and John Watson seemed to be on his side. Mike was a zoologist who handled the collections of flora and fauna, and John was a doctor and anthropologist who cared for the human remains. They were far more disciplined (John was an ex-soldier) than some of their colleagues and their department was the most organised. They had also not objected to any of his new rules so far. 

Mrs Hudson was also seemingly on his side. As both catering and shop manager, she ruled the cafe and museum shop with an iron hand. She took no nonsense from anyone, not even him and Mycroft was happy to leave it that way. Her record was consistently high where the profits were concerned, and Mycroft could see no changes that he could make would improve on her obviously masterful management of one of their main sources of funding. 

He knew Anderson did not like his proposal that the conservation team take profitable work from outside sources, thereby gaining much needed revenue. He argued it would be too much work for a department already stressed to breaking. Mycroft’s answer was to consider the possibility of taking on more staff. Anderson had positively bristled. 

Mycroft’s revery was broken by the noisy arrival of a group of children through the main doors, scattering rain water everywhere and chattering excitedly. He sighed. Children meant disruption, although education was a large part of their remit. No museum could avoid their work as an educational establishment. Wiggins, on the ball as always, wandered over in their wake armed with a mop and bucket and a 'wet floor' sign. As Cleaning Services Supervisor he was resigned to the endless round of tidying up after visitors. 

Mycroft allowed his eyes to wander over the group, currently mustering near the entrance to the classroom that was situated close to the main doors. All told, not badly behaved. Not too loud either. Excited, yes, as most children are when let out of school for a day, but not overly disruptive. A pleasant surprise really. Mycroft’s gaze alighted on one of the adults accompanying the group, a tall man with silvering hair, his voice ringing out with authority. Not a parent helper then. This was most likely the teacher in charge. Mycroft was arrested by the man’s eyes as he turned to glance toward the main desk. They were warm and dark, and he was a deal younger than he appeared at first glance. His smile was wide and cheerful, and it lit his face. There was an obviously boyish charm there. This one was a rogue and no mistake. 

“Greg!” Mrs Hudson’s cry was surprised and warm and Mycroft watched transfixed as she bustled over from the shop and took the man in a hug as though he was a long lost son. 

“Mrs H. How are you?” The man’s reply was equally warm.

“Fine, dear, fine. Look at you, all qualified. How are things?”

“Really good, Mrs H, thank you. Things are going great.”

“Really though, how are you?” her voice lowered to a pitch Mycroft could not hear and Greg’s smile changed. He didn’t quite lose the smile but gave a philosophical shrug and nodded, murmuring something which appeared positive but there was a brave attempt to cover his obvious pain. Mycroft was intrigued. He watched Mrs Hudson pat Greg on his arm as a mother might, with sympathy and reassurance. The man had undergone some recent trial then? A trial Mrs Hudson knew about and obviously sympathised with. She was definitely on his side.

Mycroft shook himself. This would never do. He turned to go upstairs to his office but his feet would not move. It was rare that one got to see someone who ticked all the boxes on one’s list of attractiveness in a potential partner but Mycroft was seeing that someone now. The man was gorgeous. Everything about his cast of features, his strong jawline, frankly beautiful smile, lovely eyes and broad shouldered frame, met with Mycroft’s approval and he could not take his eyes from the man. Mrs Hudson finally let him go with assurances to keep in touch and he walked over to the main desk, passing right by Mycroft as he did so. Mycroft inhaled, smelling rain, a clean hint of coal tar soap, the woodsy fragrance of aftershave and a whiff of cigarettes. He watched as the man, Greg, signed the paperwork for the school’s visit that Janine, one of the Front of House staff, handed over to him, then went in search of his class. The classroom door shut with a thud and Mycroft blinked, the spell broken. 

“Mr Holmes?” Drat the woman. She would most likely have spotted his moment of weakness…

“Mrs Hudson.” Smile and look as though she is the one person you wanted to see. 

“Can we help you this morning?” the good lady inquired.

“No, thank you. I was just coming from a meeting. We have a PhD student studying our Bronze Age pottery, he’ll be a familiar face for a while. Mr Culverton Smith, he's a lecturer at the University.”

“Oh, him…”

“You know him?”

“I certainly do. He comes almost every year. You wouldn’t know, being new here, but he’s not a PhD student, not really. Oh he does study, and he is a lecturer, but he’s just not PhD material. He’s changed his subject so many times… I think he just wants to work in a museum. Whenever a job comes up here he'll always go in for it but Jonathan would never employ him. Jon always said he wasn’t Sherrinford material. Enthusiastic but not a team player, if you get my drift. He’s camp as they come. Harmless, really, but Jonathan never wanted him around. Had a bit of a chip on his shoulder there. Doesn’t help that the man is a flirt, he's been known to chat up everyone even remotely gay and even some who aren’t…”

“He offered to help settle me in. Advice on good pubs and such.”

Mrs Hudson giggled. “That wouldn’t be all he would offer, I should think.” She patted his arm reassuringly, almost the same way she had patted Greg’s arm. “Don’t you worry, dear. Nobody cares what your orientation is, they only mind about keeping their jobs.” 

“That’s...well…” He hadn’t been aware it was that obvious. 

“Mr Holmes, you are welcome here, you know that? Don’t worry about the dissenters. They’ll come around. Nobody hates you, not really. You’re a new broom. It scares people.”

“I am trying to be...accommodating, but there is a job to be done.”

“Oh, I know that, dear. You keep doing it. Things are already better here than they have been for years. People are feeling much more positive about things already, even if they don’t show it.”

Mycroft allowed a small smile to grace his lips. It made him feel immeasurably better to hear her words, even if they were small comfort in the grand scheme of things.

“If it’s of any comfort, Mrs Hudson, you are doing your own sterling job. I have no plans to meddle with your domain or position for the foreseeable future.”

“Thank you, dear,” she said with a broad smile. “Glad we understand each other.”

“Mrs Hudson...Who was that man you greeted just now?”

If anything her smile faltered a little. “Greg? He’s a teacher in town. Sherrinford Primary I think.”

“May I ask how you know him?”

“Oh, I’ve known Greg since he was a lad. He was born here. His mum and I worked at the sweet factory on the edge of town. His dad died when he was quite young. He was a policeman, got shot in the line of duty. Greg idolized his dad, so much so, he joined the police as soon as he was old enough. He’s been in the London Met for years. It’s very sad really.” Her voice faded.

“Sad? What happened?”

“His wife died a few years ago. She was giving birth to their son. Pre-eclampsia apparently. In minutes he’d lost his entire family.”

“That’s...terrible.” That someone so beautiful could suffer so much, it left Mycroft feeling slightly sick. 

“Very.” She sniffed. “He had a mental breakdown and had to leave the police. Couldn’t take the stress any more. He left London and came home here. He changed career and qualified as a teacher recently. He looks so much better…”

“It’s good to see he’s on his feet again.”

“It is.” She smiled. “Greg is...lovely, really. So strong too. He’d have made such a good father. I guess he’s decided to help other kids now, though. He’s a great teacher by all counts too. My neighbour, Mrs Taylor, her grandkids are in his class.”

“That’s good to hear, that someone who has suffered such tragedy can rise above it, change his stars, and make a new life.”

“Greg’s a rare one, and no mistake.” She gave him the side eye and smiled, a touch too knowingly. “You like him, I can tell.”

“He’s a very...striking man to look at. However…” He was not going to tell her that the man’s gentle brown eyes had burned themselves into his memory, and the sound of his voice would haunt Mycroft’s dreams for a while… Mycroft straightened his back and checked his watch again. This was all getting far too informal. “I must get back to work. I’ve wasted too much time as it is.”

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s his name, Gregory Lestrade.”

Mycroft blinked. _Why on earth would Mrs Hudson tell me that? Unless…_ He glanced at her. “Mrs Hudson, I hardly think…”

“Good. Too much thinking is bad for you.” She smiled and walked back into the shop. Mycroft frowned. Janine was doing her best not to smile and to ignore the exchange and get on with answering the question a couple of visitors had asked. Mycroft took himself back to his office, trying not to listen to the voice in his head that was repeating the man’s name over and over… 

_Gregory Lestrade, Gregory Lestrade, Gregory Lestrade…._


	2. Making an Exhibition of Oneself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft meet, although the circumstances are not ideal, not when Greg's class think Mycroft might be a stalker...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn’t named the town they live in but from now it’s called Ashton Parva. In English place names Parva is from the latin and translates as lesser, as Magna is greater. They tend to indicate early medieval. It is not intended to be a real place, just a decent-sized town somewhere within an hour’s commute of London.

“Alright, everybody, settle down.” Greg Lestrade walked to the front of the Museum’s classroom and stood next to the Museum’s Education Officer. “This is Miss Hooper. Miss Hooper is going to tell us a little about the museum today and then we’re going to split into your groups and go exploring. You’ll have tasks to do with your Group Leader, so listen carefully to everything Miss Hooper tells you. Yes, Billy?” Greg responded to a skinny arm from a small boy who sported a shock of red hair. 

“Please, Sir, I need the loo!”

Greg sighed and rolled his eyes. “Mrs Fenwick, could you please…?” A motherly woman was already rising to her feet as he spoke. She made her way between the children’s seats, extracted the small boy from among his peers and deftly maneuvered him out of the room. 

“Right then, everybody else can wait. We shall visit the loos properly after Miss Hooper has spoken to us. Right, over to you, Miss Hooper.”

“Thank you, Mr Lestrade. Right, children, welcome to The Sherrinford…” Greg took a back seat as she launched off into how old the museum was (built in 1889), where the objects in the collections had come from (all over the world) and who had built the place (the Ashton Parva Philosophical Society). Molly Hooper was succinct, and fun, asking questions, keeping the kids engaged, using both weird and mundane things from the collections to illustrate her lesson. Greg found himself sitting just as still and as absorbed by her tale as the kids were when she was telling them about the eccentric Jebediah Winstanley Montmorency Sherrinford. “Jebediah was more than a little obsessed with the things he collected,” Molly explained. “He began collecting things when he was a young man in India during the days of the British Empire, way back in the reign of Queen Victoria.” She explained that his family still lived locally, but he sadly ended his days in the local asylum, dying in poverty in his early sixties after gifting his eclectic collection to the Philosophical Society some years before. 

“Okay, so, any questions? Yes?” she said as one skinny girl with green eyes raised a hand.

“You said his name was Sherrinford?”

“I did, yes.”

“That’s what our school is called.”

“Ah yes, Sherrinford Primary. Well, Jeremiah Sherrinford’s descendents still live in this area. Your school was started with money another member of the family put into trust to provide an education for the children of Ashton Parva, so they named the school after him.”

“Why?”

“Well, to honour him and thank him for the gift.” 

“What’s a trust?”

“Rebecca, put your hand up if you want to ask a question,” Greg instructed gruffly. He wasn’t about to let his class get away with being rude and shouting out. He caught Molly’s gaze and she rolled her eyes again. He allowed himself a small smile in return. 

Molly spent spent a few more minutes answering questions, but the session had gone quickly and they were soon sorted back into their individual groups and were hurrying to visit the toilets before beginning their trek into the depths of the museum. Now came the part where they were off to hunt for the things Molly had been telling them about. 

Greg surveyed his small group (the most challenging kids) and began getting them focused on their task. “Right, Harry,” he said to a tall blond boy with blue eyes, a winning smile and a tendency to lie through his teeth. “You’re team leader. You can write the answers down. The rest of you, get looking…”

“SIR! Tell Dave to stop pulling my ponytail…” Maria whined.

“I never…” Dave began but Greg cut him off. 

“Shut up, Maria…” Stephen began.

“Stop it, all of you! Right now,” Greg ordered. “Nobody pulls anybody else’s hair, clothing or anything else within reach. Nor do we shout, scream, jump up and down or roll on the floor. We have had this conversation at school, have we not? So IS all that understood? If you don’t behave I shall make sure the people responsible miss the summer trip to the seaside.”

“Sir…”

“Aw, no, Sir…”

“Sir, we never did nuffin…”

“Right, let’s keep it that way, shall we? Harry, first question please.”

Mycroft waded through the overstuffed inbox on his desk and then his other overstuffed inbox on his computer. It was interminable. If it hadn’t been for his awaiting the results of grant applications and requests to borrow certain items from other museums, he would have let his PA deal with his post. As it was, it dragged on for a long time, despite being able to hand certain things off the different departments including the Exhibition Officer. He finally rose from his chair and stretched, a grunt of discomfort escaping as he did so. He let his mind drift back to the handsome teacher. _What was his name? Greg with the slightly French-sounding surname. Yes, that was it. Gregory Lestrade. He really did look more like a policeman than a teacher. No surprise for someone who had so drastically altered their career path._ Mycroft smiled a little wistfully. The man was single, widowed, and there was no reason to suppose that he would ever be open to a relationship with a man, even if the improbable happened and Mycroft actually got to speak to him. He chuckled at the absurdity of it. 

“Holmes, you are getting fanciful in your old age,” he muttered, and walked out the door. He wanted to see how the technicians were progressing on the new gallery. It was a good excuse to stretch his legs. As he passed her desk on the way out, he asked Anthea to field his calls until he got back, then he took the stairs down to the first floor.

“Morning, Mr Holmes.” Anderson said a touch stuffily as Mycroft passed through one the anthropology galleries. Mycroft saw he was engaged in checking the readings on the humidity monitors in the cases containing the shrunken heads. Mycroft was about to reply when there was a squeal in close proximity that had Mycroft gritting his teeth. He fancied the sound should have shattered the glass in the cabinets. A group of small girls had obviously seen the heads.

“Are those REAL?” one squeaked, dashing up to look. She was followed by four more who crowded in, nearly elbowing Anderson aside.

“Dianne Brown, be quiet! Kindly remember where you are,” their teacher murmured in a low but forceful voice. She was small, blonde and dressed in military-style combat jacket and jeans, hiking boots on her feet. She looked ready for anything and certainly not about to take prisoners. 

“Sorry, Miss Morstan,” the girl called Dianne replied, subdued. “But are they real? Really?” Miss Morstan peered into the case and nodded. “Yup, they’re real,” she confirmed, and flashed a grin at the girls before shepherding them on. Mycroft only nodded to Anderson who was looking rather disgusted at the invasion. Mycroft gave the children a wide berth, heading down the stairs to the ground floor. 

On his way through the local history galleries, he could hear another group of children before he saw them. They were gathered around the Viking exhibit, pointing excitedly at the axes and the excellent example of a sword that had been found in the local river more than fifty years ago. It was _his_ group. Mycroft stopped and took a step back, behind a convenient pillar. Lestrade’s voice carried in the relative quiet of the gallery, not a booming voice, just a resonant one, easily projected to make the children take notice. _It would make most people take notice,_ Mycroft considered. He peered around the pillar carefully, wanting to catch a glimpse without being noticed. He tried to act nonchalantly, as if he was meant to be there, taking an interest in the contents of a convenient case. He rolled his eyes at his own absurdity. If the Director of the museum was not meant to be there, who was? He caught sight of the man as he pointed out the group of mannequins dressed in Viking attire and Mycroft clearly heard him say “You see, there were no horns on Viking Helmets.” 

Mycroft found himself puffing up with pride at the man’s knowledge, a small smile curving his lips. There were still teachers out there who did not know that bit of information. Greg carried on, “Archaeologists have only found one helmet that they know absolutely is a Viking one, and not many others from that time. Metal was very expensive…”

“Why, sir?” 

“Not easy to get out of the ground, and not easy to work into something. Took a lot of skill to be a metalworker in those days. We are talking over a thousand years ago, Stephen. Their technology wasn’t as good as ours by a long way. Here, you can see some of the tools they used…” 

Mycroft peered around his pillar, and saw a vision. Greg had stopped under one of the carefully angled spotlights in the gallery as he pointed the Viking tools out to the children. The light caught his salt and pepper hair turning it silver. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat. The man was a veritable Adonis. Greg turned suddenly and Mycroft darted back out of sight, heart pounding. _What on earth am I doing?_ Mycroft mentally slapped himself. _I am acting like a lovestruck teenager rather than the Director of a noted museum._

“Sir…? There’s a man watching us.”

“What? Where?” 

“Behind that pillar, sir…” 

Mycroft’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. _Damn that child’s sharp eyes!_ Momentarily thrown, he had no idea what to do. He considered bolting for safety but caught himself. _Stupid! There was no need for such wild behaviour…_ Carefully, he pivoted and bent to examine the case beside him. He heard footsteps and resisted turning round. 

“Excuse me,” Greg said behind him.

“Pardon me?” Mycroft turned. “Were you talking to me?”

Greg found himself tongue tied by the man he found on the other side of the pillar, kneeling beside the case of early medieval coins. Firstly Greg was a bit startled to find that his class hadn't been lying when they said they'd seen someone there. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, the man was very good looking. He was very smartly dressed; a tweed three piece, complete with full Windsor knot on the burgundy tie and a matching square peeking neatly out of his top pocket. His hair was a dark auburn, coppery highlights glinting in the lights. He was also taller than Greg, as was evident when the man rose smoothly to his feet. He was slim too, a lean frame under the suit. Greg suddenly had no idea what to say. The man was gorgeous, despite a somewhat hawk-like nose which he was currently staring down. His eyes were grey leaning to blue and his expression, though a little supercilious, was expectant as they stood there. Greg realized it was the man who had been standing by the admissions desk when he had arrived with his class, the same man he had seen Mrs Hudson talking to as he had been waiting for his class to file into the museum's education room to begin their day. Mrs Hudson had been chatting quite amicably to the man, as though she knew him well, so it was unlikely he was much of a threat. Mrs Hudson was very discerning where people were concerned. The two of them had appeared at ease with each other. Greg had decided the man probably worked at the museum. He definitely had the appearance of a curator. Now here he was again, and Greg, wrong-footed, had no idea what to say to him.

Mycroft deliberately stayed silent and waited to see what the man would say to him. He could see the man’s brain working, trying to decide if he was a potential threat to the safety of the children under his care. First and foremost the man was a protector, his whole demeanor putting himself between this unknown threat and those for whom he was in loco parentis, whether a conscious decision or not. After all, this man had begun his career as a policeman, an observant member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. _Once a policeman, always a policeman,_ Mycroft thought. Good instincts for being in his current profession. 

“Can I help you?” The words seemed to shake the man out of whatever had frozen him and he blinked, uncertain.

“I...well, I was just...um...checking. One of my kids...my class...they thought someone was watching them. I was just…”

“Being careful,” Mycroft supplied. He smiled. “Of course you were. You have the safety of your class at heart, it’s not a surprise. I take no offence at that. Children are somewhat fanciful though. I’m afraid someone reported to me that the coins in one of the cases were showing signs of tarnish, so I was simply wanting to follow that up and was not certain to which case they were referring. Your children probably saw my indecision and wondered if I was lurking suspiciously.” Mycroft comically emphasized the last two words and was gratified when Greg grinned in response. Mycroft was rather pleased with his impromptu cover story, despite the fact that there were no more cases showing coins in that particular area. He hoped Greg would remain oblivious to the fact that Mycroft’s indecision was rather spurious at best. 

“Well, sorry to have bothered you," Greg said. "I’d best get back to my class before someone does anything daft. They’re not malicious really, just...well, they’re a little challenging. Rough backgrounds, some of them. They’ve not had an easy start but they do need to be guided.” 

“I am sure they are secure in your care.” 

“I do my best. Visits like this are very important to them. Most haven’t seen the inside of a museum before.” 

“Well, I hope they appreciate your efforts.” 

Greg laughed. “Doubtful,” he said. “I’m their teacher, not their friend. Can’t ignore the fact I’m the one gives them homework and makes them behave.” It was Mycroft’s turn to chuckle and Greg actually seemed to be enjoying their conversation. 

“I must go,” Mycroft checked his watch. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit.” 

“Thanks…”

“Oh, how rude of me. Allow me to introduce myself. Mycroft Holmes.” He stuck out his hand and found it gripped in a warm, dry and very firm handshake. 

“Greg Lestrade.” 

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, I assure you,” Greg said gently. 

“Sir...Sir, Maria and Stephen are arguing…”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Gotta go,” he said, and dashed off back into the recesses of the gallery. “Oi! You lot, settle down. I will not tell you again…”

Mycroft made himself scarce, as fast as was possible while not seeming to hurry. He turned Greg’s words over and over in his head as he made his way briskly toward the back of the museum and the polythene sheeting across the entrance to one of the downstairs galleries. _The pleasure is all mine. All mine. All mine…_ Mycroft wondered if the man had actually meant those words. Greg Lestrade did not strike Mycroft as a person who said things he did not mean. 

Over the sounds of the drilling that reached his ears as he approached Mycroft could still hear Greg’s resonant voice in his memory. He sighed, pulling himself together, concentrating on the sound of muted orders being barked across the room beyond the plastic sheet. He shimmied past the rope barrier, nodding to the attendant on duty. Parting the polythene, he stepped inside, seeing wooden framework in place for the temporary stud walls and bubble-wrapped display cases gathered in the center of the room. Paint tins were stacked in one corner, sporting a range of tastefully matched muted colours. Two men were maneuvering large sheets of MDF into place, while another was fixing them into place with a nail gun, and two others were atop a large scaffolding tower, carefully painting the perimeter walls. He put all thoughts of the teacher out of his head and took in the tall form of the man approaching him across the dusty floor.

“Morning, Mycroft.” 

“Terry, how are things?”

Terry Grant, the Exhibition Officer, smiled in satisfaction. “On schedule, believe it or not. We should have the stud walls complete in a couple of days, then the painting can go ahead. The UV sheeting for the windows is due to arrive tomorrow, and we can have that in place by next weekend. Mr Tench tells me the interactive screens will be delivered today.”

“I believe that is correct, yes. I got your email concerning Mr Moriarty. He is coming next Wednesday to oversee their placement and programming, is he not?”

“With luck, yes. He did say he had another job on but he’s making Sherrinford a priority.”

“He’d better, considering how much we’re paying him,” Mycroft remarked dryly. Terry smiled. 

“Don’t worry, sir. Jim is okay. He’s experienced with heritage projects, he understands the requirements.”

“That’s good news. Might be a good idea to have Moran help him.”

“I’ll talk to Seb about that this afternoon. He’s out buying a new laptop for Sally at present. Hers died yesterday.”

“Just keep me posted, Terry. I have to say it’s all looking good, even though it does resemble a building site right now.”

Suddenly there was a flurry at the polythene door and a small figure hurtled inside. He was followed by the Attendant on duty who was shouting at him to come back. The boy stopped short when he saw Mycroft, and tried to bolt back the way he had come but was fielded by the Attendant and… Mycroft suddenly came face to face with Greg Lestrade once more, and this time he was looking thunderous. He also looked harassed, although a number of expressions crossed his face in quick succession as he assessed the situation in front of his eyes; relief on finding his pupil, anger that the boy had run off and embarrassment that one of his children should fail him so badly right in front of the person he had been talking to moments before. 

“Stephen Wilding, you stop right there!” Greg’s roar had everyone stopping what they were doing, not just the culprit. Mycroft had a fleeting impression of how the man must have been as a policeman; commanding, used to giving orders. “How dare you, young man!” he thundered, dark eyes glowering. He turned to the men in the room and his eyes alighted on Mycroft and Terry. “I am _so_ sorry,” he apologized. “This young man decided to disobey me and ran off. Stephen, apologize. NOW!” Greg ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. The small boy looked at the floor. “I said, now, Stephen. Will I be writing a letter home again?” The boy looked up, fearful at the quiet warning.

“S.s.sorry,” he stuttered, looking chastened. 

“Good. Now apologize to this nice gentleman here who had to chase after you.” Greg stood over the child as he apologized to the red-faced attendant and then turned to Mycroft. “And apologize to these gentlemen as well, because you managed to interrupt them.” 

Mycroft watched the boy squirm. Eventually a ‘sorry’ was forthcoming, albeit a very small one. 

“That's quite alright,” he found himself saying. “Apology accepted, young man, but don't do it again. This area is off limits for a good reason. The builders here are using tools and equipment that could be dangerous to you, coming barging in here.” Mycroft looked at Greg and then back to the boy. “I think you owe your teacher an apology too. That was a silly thing to do and you obviously worried him.” For a moment it looked like the lad was going to rebel but eventually he said “sorry, sir,” in a small voice.

“Come on, you. We've not finished the visit yet and we're wasting time.” Greg turned to Mycroft before they left. “I hope he didn't do any damage…”

“No, no, he did not have enough time to do anything damaging.” 

“Good…”

“Please do not worry yourself about the incident. Your timely arrival made sure there were no further problems.” 

“Thank you… It's just…”

“I completely understand, the school does not need to hear about it.” Mycroft attempted a smile but the effect was probably not the one he was aiming for. The man looked relieved however, and offered a silently mouthed _thank you_ as he left. 

Mycroft turned back to his exhibition officer and found Terry staring at him as though he'd grown two heads.

“What?” he asked. 

“Nothing… It's just…not how I would have expected you to react, that's all…”

“Come now, Terry, I'm not an ogre. Children can be little buggers sometimes. It's not the teacher's fault if one disobeys now and again.”

“Not what you said last time.”

“What did I say last time?”

“It was after that kid knocked the Tang replica off its plinth. Remember? Something about it being a teacher's duty to make sure they knew what the children under their care were doing at all times.”

“And it is, but as teacher in charge I believe he has taken on the most challenging children so his helpers do not have to bear the responsibility. He can cope with being the one to screw up but he won't foist it off onto people with insufficient training to deal with such problems. Admirable, really.” 

“You're doing that thing again, aren't you? That deducing thing.”

Mycroft smiled. “A little, I suppose. A lifetime of reading other people's motives does that to you. Not to mention spending a lot of time with my younger brother.”

Greg breathed a sigh of relief as he counted the last child back onto the bus. It had been a bit of a fraught day but all told he was quietly pleased with his class’ behaviour. They had come a long way since he had taken over at the beginning of the New Year. Newly qualified, he had bagged the job in his home town by recommendation from a former teacher who was on the point of retirement. The Headmistress, Irene Adler, was a career teacher who left him in no doubt that she would be taking a risk on him. She had taken over the reins of the failing school three years ago and their current Ofsted report had subsequently proved to be a good one. However, she was aiming for better. Much better. Ms Adler expected her staff to be very disciplined, and to keep the children under control. Greg's little slip that morning would not have been received well at all, had she known. Greg was relieved that Stephen hadn't damaged anything, and he was more than grateful to the man with the dark auburn hair for not pursuing a complaint. That was the last thing he needed.

Greg loved his job, but sometimes it was stressful. After the Met though, teaching was almost easy. He loved the kids, each and every one an individual whom life had treated less than well. He was gradually bringing them into line, giving them boundaries, sticking to the rules and handing out rewards based on how well they behaved. So far it seemed to be yielding results even if Ms Adler remained stubbornly unimpressed. 

Greg missed his wife too. The flat was too empty and there was nobody to boss him gently around in the morning, no one to encourage him when things didn’t go well, nobody to keep going for, no one to eat dinner with or go to sleep alongside. Eleanor had been a wonderful woman, his rock and his encouragement, his friend. He tried not to think of her. Their baby would have been three this year. He watched the kids on the bus settle down with their friends, raise their voices in some schoolyard song, and share sweets, and take selfies… He should have been looking forward to his own children starting school. Instead he was overseeing other people’s kids stumbling through their latter years of primary school, trying to sort them out into decent human beings before they moved on to Secondary level. 

Greg thoughts turned to Mycroft again, gratified to have actually met the man, even though he seemed aloof in an academic kind of way. He was unmarried, no kids, but possessed an annoying younger brother (Greg could identify with that though). Mrs Hudson had been more than eager to supply him with the details. She had also informed him that Mr Holmes was gay, which was a surprise. He didn’t broadcast the fact and Greg wondered if he was still closeted. He himself jumped both ways, as the fancy took him. He had been married to Eleanor for nearly eight years, but if his relationship with Nick in uni hadn’t gone wrong, it could have been a very different tale. 

Greg was quiet on the bus back to school, contemplative, a little bit melancholy. He could hear Eleanor’s voice in his head; _Don’t be daft, Greggybear, he’s gorgeous, and you know it, so go for it_. 

_Don’t be daft yourself,_ he thought. _I’m not ready…._

“Sir? Sir? Frankie’s been sick…” 

Greg sighed and levered himself out of his seat, grabbing the bucket full of emergency supplies as he did so. _Back to reality_ , he thought, making his way to the back of the bus to rescue Frankie, armed with sick bags, hand wipes and a resigned expression.

_Ah, the joys of being a teacher..._


	3. Turn Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg decides to return to the Museum, in the hopes of seeing the handsome curator again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shortish one but I'll be posting again soon.

Greg watched the last child off the bus and back into her parents’ care, thanked the driver and then strode into the school to collect his briefcase and paperwork. He smiled. There was marginally less paperwork than in the Met but not by much. He opened the classroom door just as his name rang out from the end of the corridor. He froze, his back to her, and rolled his eyes in exasperation. He pivoted to face her, plastering a genial smile on his face as he did so. 

“Ms Adler, what can I do for you?” he asked as she bore down on him, patent heels clicking on the parquet. She was wearing one of her signature figure-hugging dresses, the red fabric as pristine as though she had just put it on. After a full day at school, that was no mean feat. Although Ms Adler did not teach as a rule. She took her administrative duties seriously. 

“Mr Lestrade, did the trip go well?” 

Greg opened his door and stood back to allow her inside and she swept by him, leaving a whiff of expensive but subtle perfume in her wake. Everything about her was immaculate as always, designed to intimidate. 

“Yes, it did, thank you,” he said in answer to her question. “I think the kids got a lot of very valuable lessons out of it.”

“It's to be hoped so, considering what it cost. I see you've put in for two more out-of-school visits this year as well. I am not sure that taking _your_ class is such a good idea. Your children can be quite...disruptive. I’m of the opinion that it was the fault of your class that your predecessor left. They’re far too wild…”

“ _Were_ too wild, Ms Adler. I like to think they’ve improved somewhat since I took over.” She eyed him in silence for a moment. Greg met her gaze with his own. 

“Yes, well, it is well to remember the hire of a bus is not cheap. ”

“Oh, I think you'll find the benefits outweigh the negatives.” Greg smiled, trying not to grit his teeth. 

“Hm. Let me be the judge of that,” she said acerbically. “I still think such opportunities are wasted on children like that.”

“Children like what?” There was an edge to Greg’s tone that he could not hide. 

“I think the term is _underprivileged_ ,” she said pointedly. “In my opinion culture is wasted on them. You ought to be able to give them what they need right here in school, which is the traditional discipline and literacy without the need to resort to money-draining activities like today's.” 

“Yes, well…” Greg checked his watch. “Look, I’m terribly sorry but I'm due at a friend's for dinner tonight,” he lied. “I really have to get going.” Irene met this with silent disdain, raking him up and down with a disparaging glance. Greg stood his ground, giving her a quiet smile. He hadn’t spent the better part of his professional life dealing with hardened criminals to capitulate in the face of scorn from this woman. His superintendent would have eaten her for breakfast.

“I'll see you on Monday,” she said eventually. “We shall discuss this further. I am not going to sign off on those trips unless you can give me a very good reason why I should allow money to be spent on children who frankly show the least potential…”

“Certainly I’ll see you on Monday morning. First thing, yeah?” 

“Of course. I’ll expect you at 8am prompt. My office. And please, do not even think of being late.” 

Greg smiled and nodded and walked briskly off toward the door, battening down his anger. It wouldn't do to lose his composure and it would only serve to make his blood pressure go up and give her the leverage she needed to get him fired. Honestly he sometimes wondered why the woman had even taken him on in the first place considering she seemed to have so little confidence in his abilities. She was a woman who liked to be in charge, he reflected. She was also a woman who wanted everyone to know it. 

Outside in his car, Greg took a few deep breaths to calm down. He had the whole weekend off to look forward to. Nobody demanding his time, or breathing down his neck. He missed not having anyone in his life to share things with, but he couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate peace and quiet after a long week at school. He was gripped with a sudden impulse. He checked his watch. It was only 3.30pm. If he was quick, he could drive into town and visit the museum again before it closed. He paused, both hands on the wheel, staring unfocused through the windscreen. _What the Hell am I up to,_ he wondered? One brief encounter and he was going back to... _to what?_ If he was honest, he hoped to lay eyes on Mycroft Holmes again. _Damn it all_ , he thought, _what am I, a teenager with a crush?_ Yet he really did hope to see the tall academic with the auburn hair again. 

Greg started the engine and drove out of the car park. It was impulse that made him turn left towards town instead of right toward home. Traffic was still light and he got there in ten minutes, with no hold ups, driving the car up the ramp into the multi-story carpark around the corner from the Museum. He parked up, and found his way down to street level, crossing the road quickly. He hesitated only a moment before climbing the steps up to the main doors. Well, he could always make the excuse that he was there to see Mrs Hudson. It wasn’t like they didn’t know each other after all. 

“Can I help you?” Greg looked up and saw the dark haired woman behind the admissions desk regarding him with polite interest. He was aware that he was hovering, eyes scanning the area as if looking for someone. 

“Oh...er...yes. I...um...I was wondering if I could see Mycroft Holmes? I met him this morning when I brought my class here. He said he worked here.”

“Oh yes, he does, but I’m afraid Mr Holmes has left word that he’s in a meeting this afternoon, Mr…?”

“Lestrade, Greg Lestrade. Well...could I leave a message? I just wanted to thank him, that’s all…”

“Of course, I can take a message for you.” 

“Greg? What are you doing here?” Greg whirled and smiled on seeing the familiar figure bustling towards them.

“Mrs H.”

“To what do we owe this visit? Did somebody forget something?”

“No, no. I, um...I wanted to see Mr Holmes. I met him this morning, and I just...well, I wanted to apologise.”

“Whatever for? What did you do?”

“It wasn’t me, Mrs H. One of the kids, he...um...he got away from me and managed to gatecrash one of the empty galleries this morning, you know where they’re putting up the new exhibition?”

“Oh dear. That was unfortunate. Any damage?”

“No, just disruption. Stephen is a little wild, I’m afraid. Mr Holmes was gracious about it, and I just wanted to apologise properly and thank him for not taking it further with the school.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Make yourself at home, Greg,” the lady suggested. “You go look at the paintings or something. I’ll be back in a mo.” She patted his arm and then Greg watched as she walked off toward the stairs. 

“Mrs Hudson, where are you going?” he asked cautiously.

“Don’t you fret yourself, I’ll be back soon.” 

“Mrs Hudson,” Janine tried to warn her, “Mr Holmes told me he was in a meeting all afternoon.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we, dear?” she declared, and continued up stairs. 

Martha Hudson was nothing if not dedicated when it came to making sure people were happy. She prided herself on her customer service, making sure all visitors to the museum’s shop and cafe were cared for properly. Her traditional cream teas were the talk of Ashton Parva. As such, she took her duties seriously. If those duties stretched a little to encompass things a little out of her purview, well, that couldn’t be helped. She wasn’t the type to abandon anyone in need. 

Martha made her way to a door marked ‘staff only’ on the other side of the upstairs gallery. She punched in a code on a keypad, listened to the click and pushed the door open, walking into the staff corridor beyond. She closed the door behind her and turned left, pausing to knock at a rather large oak door half way along the corridor. 

“Come in,” said a woman’s voice. Martha opened the door and went inside. Beyond lay a large airy room, painted in muted lilacs and cream, the walls adorned with paintings from the museum collection. On the wall ahead was another door, inset into a heavy frame. A lovely young woman with a mane of dark wavy hair looked up from her seat behind a modern glass desk as Martha entered. A frown drew her perfectly penciled eyebrows together. 

“Mrs Hudson? Mr Holmes wasn’t expecting you, was he?” Anthea Mallory might have phrased her words as a question but she knew absolutely well that Martha was not expected. She was a master of organisation and didn’t miss anything.

“No, Anthea, love, he isn’t, but is he in?”

“He’s in a meeting.”

“That’s the official line, yes, but is he in?”

Anthea sighed and smiled. “Martha, it’s more than my job’s worth and you know it. The boss wanted some peace this afternoon. The University has asked him to present a paper at the end of next month and he’s got to finish an application for lottery funding.”

“Oh, come on. Could you at least ask the man if he’s free? There’s someone I know waiting downstairs who wants to see him and have a little chat. I think Mr Holmes might be quite interested in who it is.”

“And who is this person exactly?”

Martha leant over conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “Greg Lestrade. He’s a teacher who came with his class earlier today and Mr Holmes met him in the galleries. Mr Holmes asked me all about him. He was quite interested, if you know what I mean, but if he’s changed his mind, at least you’ve given him the chance.”

“Alright, seeing as it’s you. Give me a moment.” She lifted the phone receiver and dialed. “Mr Holmes? Yes, sir. Sorry to interrupt you but I have Mrs Hudson here. Yes, sir, I am aware...She’s wanting to know if you’re available… Yes, yes, of course, sir… Yes, I am aware but she says there’s someone downstairs who wants to speak to you… A Mr Greg Lestrade, sir…” Anthea was abruptly left staring in a slightly surprised fashion at a dead receiver and moments later, the office door opened. Mycroft stood there, cool and composed and put together in his tweeds. 

“Mrs Hudson? Was there something?” He sounded quite irritated at being interrupted and stared at her forbiddingly.

“Oh, Mr Holmes, so nice to see you. I’ve got Mr Lestrade downstairs. He wants to speak to you. You know, just a little chat.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft gave a put upon little sigh and turned to Anthea. “Ms Mallory, would you please take any calls for me, tell them I shall call back tomorrow. I need a break from all those interminable forms anyway.” He paused at the door and turned back. “Where is Mr Lestrade now?”

“He’s in the galleries downstairs, perusing the paintings…” 

Mycroft nodded and disappeared out the door. Martha winked at Anthea and disappeared off to her own office. She may just call in on those nice boys in the security office and have a quick look at the gallery cctv on her way… 


	4. Once a Policeman, Always a Policeman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Greg and Mycroft meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you from different shores, Ofsted is our regulatory body that makes sure all our schools and educational establishments are delivering the correct level of educational content, adhering to our National Curriculum and also regulating the standard of care for children. If a school is not performing well, a new Head can be appointed to oversee changes, and bring standards up. Head teachers in the UK are not just administrators. Some of them elect to teach regular classes, although some prefer to step in as the need arises, as emergency cover for instance. And on a side note, we do not get snow days here. If schools close in winter or for any reason, they close, and our holidays are not eroded as a result. I find that really strange... So sue me, I'm a Brit... ;)

Mycroft made his way downstairs and tried, unsuccessfully, to calm the fluttering of a whole cabinet full of lepidoptera specimens that seemed to have taken up residence in his digestive tract. Janine spotted him as he got to the bottom step and smiled. As Mycroft opened his mouth to speak she wordlessly pointed past him toward the 19th Century Gallery. Mycroft shut his mouth with a snap and altered course, heading for the recesses of the halls that held part of the Museum’s extensive fine and decorative art collections. Coincidentally enough, the man seemed to have chosen Mycroft’s favourite part of the Museum to wait in; the galleries housing the Arts and Crafts Movement works, a few pieces by the Pre-Raphaelites, and ceramics by Minton, Pilkingtons and the Martin Brothers. 

There had been a deliberate attempt in this part of the museum to create a typical Victorian air about the place. There were strategically placed ferns and aspidistras on pedestals, cared for by Wiggins who made sure the leaves were always dust free and the dead bits pruned. The gallery walls were painted a dark red above a cladding of glossy amber-coloured tiles, their low relief dado rail sporting a twisting rope of grape-laden vines. The decision had been taken to maintain the galleries in their original state, in order to explore the history of collecting as well as show off the pieces in their original setting. Mycroft quite liked the traditional feel to the place. It appealed to his sense of history, not to mention his love of drama.

Mycroft spotted Greg first and paused before making himself known. The man was standing in front of the painting of a curvaceous woman clad in a blue medieval-style dress, vines twisting around her, a mane of wavy red hair framing her face. He was concentrating on the painting, a peaceful look in his eyes. If Mycroft hadn’t known better he would have said the man was conversing with the portrait, his lips moving ever so slightly as he looked at her. Mycroft drank in the sight of the former policeman, trying to rein in his own wayward emotions. He let his eyes roam over the man’s solidly muscled frame, the short strands of hair at his neckline, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. He had taken his tie off, shirt collar open beneath his jacket, raincoat slung carelessly over one arm. He was relaxed, unaware he was being watched. 

Mycroft shook himself. This would never do. _I have faced halls full of historians and academics and critics, and presented more papers than Anthea has had hot dinners, and I am still nervous?_ Mycroft stepped closer, torn between wanting to watch and not wanting to spook the man. As he watched, Lestrade reached out a hand, and for a moment Mycroft was sure he was going to touch the picture, but then his hand hovered, before pulling back.

Greg was actually enjoying himself. He remembered the gallery from when his mum had dragged him in, bored on a weekend, trailing her while she shopped for new clothes for herself and shoes for him. She had bought them both ice cream as a reward for not complaining and then, when they had eaten those, she had taken him into the museum to waste time before their bus came, with the promise of dinosaur bones and pictures of castles. She had watched as seven year old Greg had dashed about from one gallery to another, asking question after question. Among the paintings, his mum had made up stories about the people in the pictures, about their jobs and their families and their hobbies. 

“That one goes fishing on Sundays instead of going to church”, “That lady owns a dress shop and has three children”, “That one owns a small dog…”, “There’s a knight in shining armour on his horse. Like you, Greggy, you’re my knight in shining armour…” He could hear her voice in his head as he passed each portrait, memories triggered by a red dress here or a small dog there, a cornfield or a blue sky, a jousting knight tilting at windmills. He could identify with that one sometimes.

Greg smiled warmly as his eyes alighted on the large portrait of a tall curvaceous woman clad in blue velvet, her head surrounded by an auriol of wavy red hair. 

“Hello, love,” he murmured almost soundlessly. He remembered showing this one to his wife on one of their rare journeys home to see his mother. They had joked that Elli could have modelled for this painting, she resembled the subject so closely. Greg greeted the painting like an old friend, although in a way it made his loss more poignant. He smiled and reached out, stopping short of actually touching the canvas. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you…”

“Lizzie Siddall,” a cultured voice said from behind him and Greg whirled to see Mycroft standing not far away.

“Mr Holmes,” Greg said, unable to keep a delighted smile off his face and held out his hand to shake. Mrs Hudson had obviously worked her magic on the man. Mycroft took the offered hand readily enough, his grip firm and dry and cool, long elegant fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary before letting go. 

“Mycroft, please,” he said warmly.

“What was her name again?” Greg asked, turning back to the painting. Mycroft came to stand beside him and they both regarded the oil painting, Mycroft with respect, Greg with wistful pleasure. 

“Lizzie Siddall,” Mycroft supplied. “She was the model for many of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood’s paintings. Married to Dante Gabriel Rossetti but she sat for Millais as well. Elizabeth Eleanor Siddall, a painter’s muse and a poet, although in my opinion, her work can be somewhat depressive.” 

“To touch the glove upon her tender hand, to watch the jewel sparkle in her ring.” Mycroft was startled as Greg began to recite the words in that gentle resonant voice of his. It sent shivers down the museum director’s spine, although Mycroft wasn’t sure that it wasn’t the emotion the words evoked that did that to him, rather than the man’s voice. 

“Lifted my heart into a sudden song, 

As when the wild birds sing,

To touch her shadow on the sunny grass,

To break her pathway through the darkened wood,

Filled all my life with trembling and tears

And silence where I stood.

I watch the shadows gather round my heart,

I live to know that she is gone,

Gone gone forever, like the tender dove

That left the Ark alone.”

“That was… very beautiful,” Mycroft murmured. "Poignant."

“Eleanor was my wife’s name. I knew the poetry, but never realised her connection with the painting. I recited that at Ellie's funeral. Seemed appropriate at the time.

“I…” Mycroft was uncertain what to say. “My condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you,” Greg smiled a smile reminiscent of the brave one he had given Mrs Hudson that morning. It seemed to Mycroft that an age had passed since then. _Have I only known him since this morning?_

“It was three years ago. Did Mrs Hudson tell you? I won’t be surprised if she has. No harm done, it’s no secret.” 

“Yes, she might have mentioned something of your history but not a great deal. She loves to gossip but she has no malicious intent.”

“Oh, I know that. She used to look after me when I was little, you know. Mum and she worked in a sweet factory together and she would mind me if mum took an extra shift to make ends meet. She’s still looking after people, even now.”

“And very good at it too.” Mycroft smiled and then asked, “She told me you had something you wished to tell me?”

“Oh, yes. Um...I… I came to apologise, actually.”

“What on earth for?” Mycroft seemed genuinely nonplussed. 

“For Stephen’s behaviour earlier, among other things. He had no right to run off, and I admit I was a little lax there, only the kids in my group are….well, they’re somewhat unruly, to say the least, but they’re good kids, they just...need a bit of guidance and someone to believe in them.”

“Honestly, there was no damage perpetrated, so I think you may stop worrying. Children will tax our patience at the best of times.” 

“Yes, but...well, thanks, but honestly, normally I have better control.”

“Apology accepted, Gregory. Now let that be an end of the matter. I have no wish to cause ructions.”

“You haven’t, and thank you. If that had got back to my Headmistress….”

“There is nothing for her to fret over. Your children behaved well, in general. There was no damage done…”

“You don’t know the Head of Sherrinford Primary. She’s a stickler for discipline and she already treats me as though I’m the same age as my kids. I’m a rookie teacher and she never stops reminding me of that fact.”

“I gather you were a policeman once.”

Greg nodded. “I was, but she already thinks my former life is an unsuitable one for a teacher. God knows why, considering she wants us to maintain discipline above everything else. I think it has something to do with the fact that I was in Homicide and Serious Crimes. She’s already informed me that the stuff I’ve seen isn’t suitable staffroom conversation material. It’s almost like I worry her somehow.” 

“Maybe she has something to hide?” Mycroft smiled, but he was only half joking.

Greg grinned again, mood lightening. “You know what? I couldn’t care less, really. Not my division any more. The kids are my concern now, and…” He paused, shaking his head. “Listen to me. I’m a boring shite when I get going.”

“Nothing that you have said so far has been boring, Gregory…”

“Gregory? God’s teeth, Mycroft, nobody calls me Gregory any more. My mum used to, when I was naughty, but I’m a big boy now.”

“Just because you’re a big boy now doesn’t preclude you from still being naughty,” Mycroft scoffed, and then froze, eyes wide in mortified surprise. _What am I saying? Oh, my God… What on earth will he think of me…_? Mycroft was certain he had just made a colossal mistake, but Greg’s face crumpled into glee and he let out a full blown belly laugh. He laughed so hard that he started coughing and drew a few stares an elderly couple on the other side of the gallery. Mycroft felt obliged to thump him on the back to stop the coughing fit. It helped Greg to regain some composure, but he was still chuckling.

“Oh, Myc…” He gasped. “You tease…”

“Forgive me. I am not...not usually so…”

“So, what? Funny? Cheeky? Relax, mate, I’m not offended.”

“It’s not my usual behaviour. I would not want you to think that I was...well, _frivolous._ ”

“Being frivolous is hardly a crime.”

“Well, you would know.” _Oh, my God, two jokes in as many minutes? What on earth is wrong with me?_ Greg was chuckling again though and Mycroft risked an answering smile. 

“Who’d have thought, director of a museum _and_ a comedian. If this job goes tits up, you could always go on stage.”

“Heaven forfend!” Mycroft protested. “I doubt very much that I should be allowed to inflict my sense of humour on the general public, such as it is.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded in brightening a crap week, so I’m thankful you at least shared your sense of humour with me.”

“You’ve had a difficult time?”

“Ah, it’s just...I don’t want to bore you with the gory details…”

“No, please. Sometimes one needs a sympathetic ear.” 

Greg grimaced, as though debating whether to reveal more. “It’s just...frustrating. The Head met me when I got back from the trip today, going on about how expensive it is to hire a coach for kids who are not likely to get much out of the visits. I want to take them out a couple more times but she’s not up for it. I have to see her Monday morning, in order to justify it. It’s not likely to go well. She doesn’t like kids who don’t perform well, she doesn’t think they’re worth spending money on.” 

“What on earth is she thinking?” Mycroft was indignant on Greg’s behalf. “They are the ones who need more money spending on them, for precisely that reason.”

Greg shrugged. “The school was under-performing a few years ago and it earned a rotten Ofsted report, well before I came on the scene. Ms Adler was appointed to improve its standing, and she has done an amazing job, but she wants the school to aim higher. Trouble is some of the kids I teach are…” Greg hesitated. He hated to use the words _disadvantaged_ or _underprivileged_. “They haven’t had the best start in life. They’re good kids, just…”

“Misguided?”

Greg winced. “That implies their parents don’t care and that’s not the case, honestly, they do, but they’re poor, struggling in a lot of cases. The families don’t go anywhere because they can’t afford to, they don’t think museums and galleries are the place to go because they feel they don’t fit in…”

“Now there, Mr Lestrade, they are wrong. It was John Ruskin, the Victorian art critic, who established a museum for the workers, for those who worked predominantly in the Sheffield steel industry. He wanted to enrich their lives, to broaden their minds, to give them somewhere to escape the smog of the city. They did not have to be titled or moneyed to visit the museum, unlike a lot of establishments in those days that charged upward of a shilling for the privilege. It cost them nothing. Ruskin saw a need for everyone to find beauty in their lives. That idealism spawned the garden villages of Cadbury’s Bournville, Lever Brothers’ Port Sunlight, Rowntree’s New Earswick and all the rest. It was the main thrust of the Arts and Crafts Movement, returning to handmade quality but in an affordable form for the masses.”

“Yeah, well, my kids need something else in their lives than people who dismiss them as unimportant or not worth anything. They need someone to believe in them, and these visits have given them something to look forward to and work towards. I won’t let them down.”

“I am sure that you won’t, Greg.” Mycroft stopped himself using the full form of Greg’s name in an effort to show the man that he respected his feelings. “I wonder. did you feel let down by your own teachers when you were a child?”

“What are you now, a psychiatrist as well as a museum director and a comedian?” but Greg was grinning as he spoke.

“No, merely a good judge of character. I would hazard that somewhere along the line, you had someone who had faith in you and you want to return the favour. Paying it forward, I believe is the modern term?”

Greg laughed. “You’re good, Holmes. Yes, I did have someone who took me under his wing, my history teacher, Mr Watson. He was amazing.”

“Watson, you say?”

“Yup, why?”

“Only that I have a curator by that name but he’s much younger than your teacher would be. It’s a common enough surname.”

“A coincidence.”

“I find the universe is rarely so lazy, but one can never tell.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, it wasn’t about his subject anyway. He was just very supportive, he knew I was clever when nobody else thought so. I lost my dad when I was young, and I didn’t have a role model as I was growing up. I was a bit wild too, a rogue, undisciplined.”

“And Mr Watson was your role model?”

“Yes, he was. Kind man. Put me back on the straight and narrow, right enough. Died the year before Eleanor. His son wrote to tell me.”

“That’s good that you had someone like that,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, well, I was lucky. Some kids are not.”

“I am sure you give them stability and structure, and support.”

“I try. I’m not young any more, I’m no longer an idealist. Hell, I was a copper in London, and nothing either surprises me or phases me anymore after that. I know I can’t change the world, but I can try to change the world for those kids, help them aim for better. They need encouragement, not rejection, they need to know someone believes in them, that’s all. So thank you, for...well, for not giving my Headmistress any more ammunition for cancelling their trips.” 

“Look, I wonder… Did you have plans for this evening? Could I invite you to dinner?” 

No reply was forthcoming and Mycroft held his breath, unsure if he had been too presumptuous. “Of course, if you’d rather not…” 

_Well, that came out of left field._ Greg realized that the man must have misinterpreted his silence. “No, no, I’ve nothing planned...I...yes, alright. Why not? Where did you have in mind?” 

Mycroft let out the breath he had been holding, only to realise he had no idea where to suggest. “I...er...well…” _And now it appears I have lost the power of speech as well as that of cognitive function._ Mycroft struggled to pull himself together. “Do you have any preference?” he asked softly, but his throat dried and he coughed. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and began again. “What kind of food do you like?”

“Oh...um...There’s that new wine bar across town, we could try that. They apparently do decent food. One of my colleagues, Mary, she went last week and said it was great.”

“That sounds like a good idea then.”

“Yeah? Right then…What time…?” 

“Do you need to return home? I usually leave at four, and…” Mycroft checked his watch. “It is well past my home time, so would you care to go now?”

“Sure...but I’m not really dressed for a night out.”

“The establishment in question is quite relaxed, I hear.”

“I could put my tie back on…”

Mycroft smiled at Greg’s suggestion and shook his head. “I doubt it will be necessary. Besides, perhaps we both need to relax. It seems we have both had trying days. Give me five minutes. I need to collect my coat and my keys. Did you come in a car?”

“It’s in the multi-story.”

“I usually catch the train back home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Not far, just a couple of stops away. I’m in Ashton Magna…”

“No shit, so am I.” Greg grinned. “I can drive us home then. Probably the posh end for you though. I’ve got a flat over the Thai restaurant on the High Street I’m afraid. Nothing posh on a teacher’s salary.”

“You did not get a police pension?”

“On a sergeant’s pay, not much of one. Besides, there were the funerals to pay for, and then my car went bust and I needed a new one for work. The School is hard to reach without one.”

“Damn, I am sorry. That was unforgivably rude of me. I had no intent to pry into your personal affairs.” Mycroft was in a tail spin. _This man is so easy to talk to._ It felt as if they had known each other for years. Yet he did not do _dates_. He had no idea what to do or where to go with this. This was not his area, by a long chalk. Doubts began to surface. _What am I doing? He’ll soon see how boring I am and ditch me before we get any further. Gregory looks like a straight man devoted to sport and beer and cars, and I… I am...what? Gay, academic and boring. My idea of intelligent conversation includes the latest acquisition by the V &A and the contents of Archaeology Today…_

“...hadn’t wanted you to know, I wouldn’t have told you.” Mycroft forced himself to focus on what Greg was saying. “It’s okay, Mycroft, seriously. I don’t mind.”

“Yes, well, it was still an invasion of your privacy, considering we barely know each other…”

“Yeah, about that. Look, this might sound barmy, but…” Greg waved a hand between them both, back and forward, “...does this feel... _familiar_...to you?”

“I have to admit, it feels somewhat as though we have known each other far longer than one day, Greg.”

“I laid eyes on you for the first time…” Greg checked his watch and Mycroft could see him working the figures out in his head, “...roughly seven hours ago. Hell, that’s not even half a day and it feels like I’ve known you for years.”

 _Well, whatever comes from this, even if he is not attracted to men, never mind me, I think I may have made a friend,_ Mycroft considered with a smile.

“Come up to my office for a moment, I shan’t be long,” Mycroft invited, and lead the way from the Gallery. Was it his imagination that Greg had murmured a farewell to the painting?

_What am I doing?_ Greg took in the opulent surroundings of the man’s office; the warm wood panelling, windsor chair, heavy mahogany desk. The shelves were lined with books; old volumes of local reference materials, Victoria County Histories, Kelly’s Directories. A blue and white Chinese vase sat on one windowsill, Mycroft probably made more in a month than Greg made in a whole year and he hadn’t denied living in the ‘posh end’ of Ashton Magna. Standing across from him, looking cool and collected, was this gorgeous man who was so put together, so much a part of this environment. _He’s not in my league,_ Greg considered regretfully. _However, even if he isn’t, I think we could be friends._ He watched as Mycroft took his coat from the hanger behind the door, and laid it over his arm. Greg noted it was very nice quality wool, obviously expensive, probably worth more than twice the monthly rent on his flat.

“So, when do you get off? I mean...what...how long...Do you get the weekend off?” _Shit, how crass can you get, you daft idiot?_ Greg sighed inwardly. _Mouth, please engage brain before you open, otherwise this evening is going to be brutally short and best forgotten._

Mycroft ignored the gaff and smiled. “I usually have the whole weekend, although should we have a function planned I usually attend, no matter when it might fall.”

“Nobody to go home to?” _Now who is prying?_

“No, I am my own man. No one to get home for, no wife, no husband either, and definitely no children.”

“You make that sound like a decree.”

“I have wished it on several occasions.”

“You don’t want kids?”

“I have never experienced any desire to be paternal, although in my case it is doubtful that I will ever have any anyway.” At Greg’s blank look, Mycroft took a breath and decided on a leap of faith. “I’m gay, Greg,” he admitted. “I’m afraid that to paraphrase your words from our earlier conversation, women are... _not my division_ ,” he added. 

“Well, just so you’re aware, I was married to a woman, for a long time, but...well, I had a boyfriend in University.” 

“You did?”

“Yup. If it hadn’t gone pear shaped with him, I might not be talking to you right now. He was an archaeologist, and we were together for four years. I thought he was the one, you know? We hit it off, a bit like this, really.” Greg bit his lip and fell silent. 

“If you would rather not tell me…”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just...not good memories, that’s all. We stayed together after university, although I was living back here with mum, and he went off to the Middle East to do some digging for some work experience before he attempted his Masters. It was the height of the AIDS scare, and we were careful but when he got back, he was a bit different. Turned out he’d cheated on me, and he hadn’t been careful, and…”

“Oh, Gregory,” Mycroft said softly, momentarily forgetting to shorten his name.

Greg shrugged. “Dangerous times, Mycroft. He played around, and when he told me, I got mad and dumped him. I didn’t want to speak to him again. I didn’t see him for four years, and then his mum called to tell me he was really sick. Would I come visit? Well...I went, but it was a mess. He died a couple of weeks after I saw him. We made our peace I suppose, but my bosses wanted to know why I’d asked for time off, and I told them a mate was ill. I lied and said he had cancer, because I knew there would be a stink if they knew the real reason, but one of my bosses didn’t believe me. He wondered why I’d wanted to get time off in a hurry, like it was family. So he did a bit of digging and found out the real reason. He was an underhanded shit and he didn’t like me, but the Super was an old mate of my dad’s and he made the man leave it alone, but I was forced to have a blood test, just to set his mind at rest, so he could defend me if necessary. It all came right in the end, it was just a mess. I met Elli during those four years, told her everything. She and I, it felt a bit like this does, I could tell her most things. She supported me through it all…”

“You loved her very much.” 

“Yeah, I did. Miss her like crazy sometimes.”

Mycroft gave him a warm smile, while inwardly he was already drawing back, reluctant to get too involved with a man he was already sure he could fall in love with, and fall hard. Mycroft was not without his own history, and although he fully intended to reveal it to Greg at some point, it was history that might prove problematic if they were to become romantically involved. Greg did not yet know about Mycroft’s siblings, and right then, he was happy to keep it that way.

“Come to dinner, Greg. I think we both need a stiff drink.”

“You can have the stiff drink. I’m driving.”

Mycroft huffed a small exasperated sigh. _Once a policeman, always a policeman..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sherrinford museum is based on many of our Victorian museums, begun as a result of collecting by Gentlemen of means in the 19th Century from their travels abroad, as was fashionable at the time. You can reference the British Museum in London, The Lady Lever Art Gallery in Port Sunlight, Liverpool, the Ashmolean and the Pitt Rivers in Oxford, the latter frankly more than reminiscent of Indiana Jones. You can include the Yorkshire Museum in York, and any of the many City Museums from our industrial centers such as Sheffield, Leeds, Bradford, Birmingham, Liverpool, Hull, Manchester, Edinburgh... The list goes on. it is based on my own experience of working in heritage, and what it entails, and many, many visits to museums like these. Go read Share the Stars With You, by Eventhorizon, for a good reference to Victorian adventuring and collecting. It's a Mystrade, and a good one. Link here http://archiveofourown.org/works/4371245/chapters/9921047


	5. Close Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner, and an encounter that's a little too close for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning into something longer than I first thought. Total chapter count upped.

They walked to collect Greg’s car and he drove them across town, the two of them chatting about inconsequential things as they travelled. The new bar had a yard behind it and Greg parked between a rather posh Jaguar and a rather large and unfortunately rather familiar white BMW. As they got out, Greg’s eyes fell on the number plate of the BMW and his heart sank as his worst fears were confirmed. 

“Greg?” Mycroft was instantly on the alert as he saw his companion’s expression change. “What on earth is the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Greg sighed heavily. “In a manner of speaking. Well, it’s about as welcome as a supernatural sighting anyway. That is my boss’s car,” he said, pointing to the number plate. “IA19. I’d know it anywhere. God damn, why tonight?” 

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

Greg considered it for a moment. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t care what my boss thinks about me. Couldn’t get any worse anyway. She’s already seems to be looking for a way to get me dismissed.”

“Why on earth would she want that?”

“I think she regrets taking me on, for some reason.”

“You know I was only half joking when I suggested she might have something to hide from an ex-copper.” 

“Honestly, I have no idea. I am doing my best not to be paranoid. However, I did say I was expected at a friend’s for dinner this evening, it was how I got out from discussing things concerning future trips right then and there. She may smell a rat…”

“If she confronts you, tell her we changed our plans,” Mycroft reasoned mildly. “None of her business really. In fact, I shall tell her exactly that, if you like.” 

“Oh, God, Mycroft, no, please, I…” Greg huffed a short laugh. “I wouldn’t want to subject you to her tender mercies.”

“Whyever not? I’ve faced down a lecture theatre of university dons in order to deliver a keynote speech and not flinched. I think I can handle the headmistress of a local primary school.”

“You have no idea,” Greg murmured. “She lives to intimidate.” 

“Then I shall find out, shall I not?” Mycroft smiled, and there was something predatory in his eyes.

Greg’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously? On your head be it, Holmes.”

“Challenge accepted,” Mycroft murmured, and honestly if that wasn’t the hottest thing Greg had heard in a long while. As well as seen, because Mycroft’s demeanour was anything but intimidated. If anything he looked confident, assured, capable. “Come on, Greg,” Mycroft said, his voice warm. “Food awaits. If she sees us, trust me take the lead.”

Inside Speedy’s, as it had been named, they found modern chrome and glass and the furthest thing from old world charm that either man had ever seen. The music was modern acoustic, and not intrusive, and the bar was a sweeping curve of polished black granite, with a distinctly sculptural design. Overall the image was one of cool modernity and it made a nice change in a town that prided itself on being rather traditional when it came to being a popular English tourist destination year after year. The staff, however, were anything but cool. They were greeted enthusiastically and shown to a seat by a cheerful young man whose name badge proclaimed him to be Peter. He handed over their menus and asked if they would like anything to drink. 

Greg nervously glanced around as Mycroft proceeded to discuss wines with the young man. He heard a snatch of laughter which drew his gaze to the end of the bar. There, behind a cluster of ferns and a strategically placed floor lamp, he could see the back of her head, expertly coiffed hair held tight against her skull. She had changed her clothes—she was now wearing black—and he could see enough to note it was still the same tailored style, showing off her best features. The lights glinted off something sparkly around her neck. Greg was still clad in the clothes he’d worn for school, and he felt suddenly under-dressed and out of place. 

Mycroft picked up on his sudden change of mood, seeing the shutters come down in his eyes. 

“She’s over there, behind the fern,” Greg said glumly, once their waiter had departed with their order. “You know though, I am now rather curious as to who she’s with. She’s never revealed she had a partner. Nobody accompanies her to school functions.”

“Maybe she has only just found someone?” Mycroft suggested. 

“Possible, I suppose. Hard to think of that battleaxe as having a date though.”

“Anything is possible, Greg. A few hours ago I would have sworn it was impossible for a gay academic museum director with a penchant for chinese porcelain and a rather boring interest in archaeology to find anyone, and yet…” he spread his hands apart, “...here we are.”

Greg looked at Mycroft then, eyes unreadable. “Yeah, we are, aren’t we?” He cleared his throat, a little nervously. “Is that, I mean, do you see this...well...going somewhere, for you and me?”

“Forgiving for a moment the atrocious grammar in that statement, considering you are an educator, Greg, I have to answer in the affirmative. Assuming, of course, that it is something you too would like to explore? After all, should it go no further, I would be content to know I have found someone to whom the term _friend_ might be applied.”

Greg smiled again. “Yeah, that...that would be good. I mean...people are saying it’s past time I moved on….”

“Greg, it is nobody else’s business but yours when the correct time is to move on. If you are not ready, then you are not ready. You should listen to your heart.”

“You know, that’s the most considerate thing anyone has said to me for a long time. Can I be honest with you, Mycroft?”

“Heaven forfend you be anything else, Greg.”

“It’s just...I’m a bloke, and I’m not good at discussing this stuff, you know?”

Mycroft smiled. “That is in itself a myth, you know. Stereotypical, really. Some people are good at discussing their emotions, some people are not. I rather think it is less to do with whether one is a man or a woman and rather more to do with how comfortable one is in revealing that part of oneself. Emotions can be difficult to discuss because they often reflect our innermost vulnerabilities.”

Greg chuckled again. “There you go again. You sure you didn’t sneak a psychiatry degree in there somewhere?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, mildly exasperated. “As I explained, I simply understand human nature. Our emotions make us vulnerable and that is not something you want to share with just anyone. Most of us have trust issues, and that is why people go to counselling. It is often easier to reveal such things to a stranger.”

“Not for me, I’d rather talk to a friend. I guess...admitting things is the hard part.”

“What things?”

“Guilt, I guess.”

“Guilt?”

“Sorry, wrong subject for the dinner table.” 

“Nonsense, Greg. It’s perfectly fine with me. So, why guilt?”

“Yeah. Guilt. Well, I put her in that situation, didn’t I? She died because she was bearing our child. Suffered preeclampsia and I lost both of them.” For a brief moment Mycroft saw Greg’s expression flinch with pain, then clear. 

“And yet that was a joint decision on both your parts, to start a family, yes?”

“Yes, it was.”

“You did not pressure her into having a child?”

“Hell, no, of course not.”

“Then the guilt, if there is any, has to be born jointly. I am rather of the opinion that you both headed into the business of having children on an equal footing, like most couples, and as such, the dangers were far from both your minds. You might feel guilt, Greg, but I do feel it is a redundant emotion and one not suited to your situation. I cannot see attaching blame is either right or proper in your case.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re not the first to reassure me of that. I know Elli loved being pregnant, every minute of it. Nobody was more surprised than me. She didn’t suffer much morning sickness, and she kept working. She wasn’t your earth-mother type, wide-hipped and sturdy, no. She was slim, even slightly petite, but she was healthy, glowing even. Every scan, nothing wrong. Being a mum-to-be really suited her.”

“So she enjoyed that time of her life, with you?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Then you should take comfort from that, at least. She was happy?”

“Very happy, we both were. Everything went to shit so fast, I didn’t have time to think. They were both gone, just like that, within hours. It was…”

“Often there are no words to describe it. Suffice to say, I understand.”

Greg sighed, nodding, accepting but sad. Mycroft felt he would give a lot to take that expression from him, to make him smile again, and smile without the underlying grief attached. 

“I guess I felt I had to atone somehow…” he said eventually.

“Not an unusual response. Survivor’s guilt.”

Greg nodded. “Exactly.”

“So, if I may ask, what prompted you to change your career to that of an educator?” 

“I guess I thought if I couldn’t raise my own kids, I could still raise other people’s, guide them and guard them I guess. Being a copper, I know well what can happen to kids if they leave the straight and narrow, and I am paying it forward, you were right there, to some extent. I couldn’t continue in the Met, it was far too stressful after I lost Elli. I had no time to process anything.”

“And have you had time since?”

“Yeah, enough, I guess. I do feel more on an even keel, and I am loving the job, it’s just...sometimes I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“I watch the kids and wonder what ours would have turned out like.”

“Of course you do. You would be a little odd if that did not cross your mind occasionally.” Greg smiled at him, warm and accepting, which in turn warmed Mycroft inside. 

“Thanks, Mycroft. It’s not been often that I’ve found anyone who actually didn’t mind me talking about it. I really do appreciate that. So, okay then, to us.” Greg raised his water glass and clinked it against Mycroft’s. “Let’s see where this takes us.”

Despite Greg’s fears, Irene remained seated at her table all evening and he began to think he might just get away with it after all. The food was good, their conversation easy and enjoyable, and the table was far enough away for their conversation to be private. He relaxed as they chatted about their favourites in music, food, art and movies. He was happy to realise that he and Mycroft had a lot in common, despite one or two things on which they were poles apart. The things they differed in were largely trivial though and Greg had never made friends based on politics or religion anyway. Everybody was entitled to their own beliefs, as far as he was concerned, as long as they didn’t hurt anyone. Besides, the differences between them were as important to him as their commonalities. It was what made them individuals. _Interesting individuals too,_ Greg thought. Mycroft actively listened to Greg as he spoke about his work, coaxing details out of him with genuine interest. It was so gratifying to be regarded that way, Greg considered, but he found it was easy to return the favour. He could listen to Mycroft talk about archaeology all day. There was passion in his voice and demeanor when he was talking about something he so obviously loved. 

“So are you an archaeologist then?”

“Alas, no, although I have the qualification, just no experience. My interest lies in porcelain, its history and its production. It is an amazing medium, temperamental, beautiful, but hard to create anything of delicacy from unless you know its foibles.” 

“I can think of worse things to be interested in.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I get boring when I ramble on about it, but as a creative medium it is beyond compare. You can see the light through it, it can be so thin and delicate, almost glass-like.” 

“You know, your eyes light up a bit when you talk about it.”

“They do?”

“Yeah, it’s...kind of nice. Do you own any then?”

“Own any?” Mycroft was still trying to process Greg’s observation about his eyes.

“Porcelain. Do you own any porcelain?”

“If you mean Chinese Porcelain, then yes, a few pieces only, nothing too expensive. I would love to show you sometime.”

“Come up and see my etchings?” 

Mycroft barked a laugh. “God, that old cliche?” 

“Well, serves a purpose.”

“That is does. Well, I meant it, I would love to share them with you. I have a feeling you appreciate old things.”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.” 

Mycroft laughed again. “Calling me old, Mr Lestrade?”

“Not at all, I’ve probably got ten years on you, Mr Holmes.”

As the conversation progressed, Mycroft’s fears were being gently allayed too, as he realised they had more than a few things in common. Greg seemed to find him interesting, almost hanging onto every word as the conversation veered onto archaeology. Now they were obviously flirting. However, despite having expressed his hopes as to how things might go between them, he knew he still had a few hurdles to get over first, his family notwithstanding. There came a moment, a pause in their conversation, the perfect time for Mycroft to explain it all, when Greg’s attention was caught by movement. Mycroft followed his gaze and saw that it looked like the Adler woman was on the move. As she came fully into view, Mycroft frowned. She was familiar somehow. He wracked his brain but came up with nothing. He waited to see if she recognised him, which might throw light on the matter. 

“Why, Greg, what a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you here. Thought you said you were going round to a friend’s for dinner tonight.” There was an ever-so-slight accusation in the tone, and Greg noted she was looking Mycroft up and down in that assessing manner of hers. Greg opened his mouth to reply but Mycroft beat him to it, pushing his chair back and standing up. He reached out to take Irene’s hand in greeting. Greg rushed a bit to follow, and watched as Irene allowed her hand to be grasped as Mycroft smiled charmingly at her.

“Gregory, do please introduce me,” he said smoothly. There was no answering recognition in the woman’s eyes Mycroft was interested to see. No help there then.

“Yes, of course, forgive me,” Greg said quickly. “Ms Irene Adler, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Irene, my boss. Headmistress of Sherrinford Primary.”

“Ah, yes, Gregory has told me such a lot about you. He tells me you have done a sterling job with bringing Sherrinford up to snuff. That cannot have been an easy job, Ms Adler.” Irene’s eyebrows lifted a little.

“Thank you, Mr…”

“Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes, of course, and no, it wasn’t easy but then if it had been they wouldn’t have bothered hiring me.” She smiled, her eyes assessing him in that cool way of hers. “So nice to meet you.” Still no recognition then, unless she was a very good liar. 

“A pleasure. Credit where credit is due, I always say,” Mycroft added before she could say any more. “I must say,” he rattled on, “this place is very good, don’t you think? Greg and I changed our plans and decided to come out for dinner this evening, and I for one am rather glad we did.”

“Yes, I suppose, it is...acceptable,” Irene agreed, as a tall, dark-haired man walked up behind her and laid a hand on her waist. He smiled vaguely and nodded at them.

“Irene, darling, time is getting on,” he murmured in her ear.

“Yes, Charles. I just happened to run into Greg here, one of my teachers. He and his… friend decided to try Speedy’s as well.”

“Good choice, gentlemen. I really rather enjoyed it, despite the name. Well, do excuse us, we’re expected somewhere and we’re running a faction late.”

“Certainly, please do not let us detain you,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Ms Adler, it was nice to meet you.”

“And you too. Have a nice weekend, Greg. I’ll see you eight o’clock sharp, monday morning.” 

She breezed past him and Greg watched the two of them head to the door. He sat down with a huff. “Well,” was all he could think of to say. Then he noted Mycroft’s slight frown. “What?” he asked. 

“Oh, it may be nothing, but Ms Adler seems curiously familiar, that’s all. She did not seem to recognise me, which is a setback in working out where I’ve seen her before, but I am confident it will come to me.” Mycroft sipped his wine. “Does she live near here?”

“Honestly no idea where she lives. Don’t think it’s local but I’ve truly no clue. She might commute miles, that woman. I’ve never seen her around Ashton Magna, but honestly none of us have any idea.”

“What, no idea at all?”

“Nope, she’s never told us.”

“Are you seriously telling me none of you know? What about her emergency contact?”

“No idea there either, and none of us are that keen to find out where that troll lives. She can go back under the bridge she crawled out from under, as far as we’re concerned.”

“We being the remaining members of staff? Has she no friends on the staff at all?”

“She has the school secretary, Moira, but she’s more of a croney, rather than a friend. I don’t think Adler is capable of friendship really. Neither is Moira, she’s more of a gossip who really doesn’t mix with the staff much. Moira’s tight as a drum and won’t hand out personal details, not even in idle conversation.”

“But she’s a gossip, which means she is happy to discuss the latest juicy rumours?”

“Yeah, but I think she has some kind of personal code. She won’t give up written information, but she’s happy to pass along what people say about each other. I dunno, I’m your average bloke who can’t articulate his emotions, not a middle-aged woman with a fetish for chitchat. I have no idea how her mind works, Mycroft. You’re the people person, not me.”

“Yes, well, in this instance I admit to a woeful lack of experience with gossips. I am surprised that Ms Adler is not more forthcoming. Would it not be to her advantage to engage in friendships with her staff?”

“Adler is definitely not there to make friends, Mycroft. She’s there to turn around a failing school and put her name on the map. Having done that, she doesn’t just want to keep it there, she wants to aim higher. She sets the bar high and sees no reason why we can’t achieve it, no matter how bright the kids are, and some of them are not that bright, believe me. ”

“Does your school not believe in equality?”

“Yes but it’s not about equality, it’s about equal access. There’s a difference.”

“I’m sure there is.”

“Look, you can't tell me you don't implement access measures in your museum. In a school environment, you cannot stick an able-bodied child and a child in a wheelchair in a room and give them the same set of toys and equipment to play on. Both of those kids need toys and play, but they both have different challenges. You need to give them equal access to play but that means adapting to make sure the opportunity is there, for both of them. Wheelchair friendly equipment, wide doors, low tables. The same applies to those with less academic talent. You spend the same money, but you equip with things those kids will learn and benefit from, including trips and visual media they can relate to. Irene bloody Adler seems to not want to do any of that.”

“You are a worthy advocate for your class, Greg.” 

“Hmph. Don’t feel worthy sometimes.”

“Put that right out of your head. One only has to hear you put your point across to understand that you are worthy, eminently worthy. Besides, you can now relax. She’s gone.” Mycroft’s grin was triumphant. “Fancy dessert?”

They demolished a piece of chocolate fudge cake each, lingering over it. Mycroft was hard put not to let the way Greg was eating his cake affect him but it was rather a hard task. The man was licking his spoon and making soft orgasmic noises with each mouthful, possibly unaware of what he was doing. _Is it too early_ , Mycroft wondered, _to lust after my dinner partner?_ He’d known the man less than a day. This was ridiculous. 

For Greg, he was unaware of the effect he was creating. The cake was so good, and the company too. He was finally free of that woman for the entire weekend, and it crossed his mind to invite Mycroft to spend it all with him. Like embers long neglected fanned back to flame, something that had been dormant too long was stirring back to life. His head, however, told him that this was too much, too soon. One dinner, some conversation, no matter how revealing, did not add up to a relationship, of any kind. He needed time to think, to see how he felt, to examine his innermost feelings. He knew he was not good at expressing those feelings openly, whether it was a man thing or just a general inability, and he had even surprised himself in how open he had been with the man. _A man you only met this morning,_ his mind supplied. No, tomorrow he would lie in for a time with a good coffee and the paper, then he would shower, get breakfast, and possibly go shopping later in the day. 

Mycroft insisted on paying the bill. Greg protested, but Mycroft tilted his head on one side and regarded him with a put-upon look. “Greg, I invited you. Please, allow me this little indulgence. You can pay next time.” Greg’s heart did a funny little leap. There would be a next time. 

“Better yet, let me cook you dinner,” he heard himself suggesting. Mycroft had smiled, and nodded.

“I very much look forward to that.”

“Well, no close encounters of the Adler kind to put us off our food.”

“No indeed.”

“So, anything you hate? Anything you can’t eat?”

“Nothing comes to mind. I am not particularly fond of olives, or extremely hot food.”

“Okay then, I’ll think of something.”

“Next Friday?" Mycroft suggested. "Tell me how your week went?”

“Done. Seven?”

“Seven it is.”

“Come on then, let me drive you home, Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this is going the right way, folks. Comments welcome as always.


	6. Contemplation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weekend is ahead...

Mycroft directed him to drive through the western edge of Ashton Magna, turning left before they reached the High Street where Greg’s own flat was situated, and into the older part of the small town. They passed a Saxon church and a small village green before Greg drew up in front of a sizable detached half-timbered house with roses rambling around the door.

“This is yours then?”

“It is, although it doesn’t yet feel like home. I bought it because of it’s age. Apparently the front is a 15th Century farmhouse, the back is an 18th Century addition.”

“It’s nice.”

“Would you care to come in?”

“Another time? I’m really kna...er...exhausted, Mycroft. Thanks for the invite though. Look, I’ll see you Friday, seven. I’ll text you the details?”

“Is that a roundabout way of asking for my phone number?” 

Greg chuckled. “Of course. However, logic dictates that it would be well nigh impossible to text you without it and you will need directions to my crappy flat if I’m cooking you dinner.”

“Point taken.” Mycroft smiled and recited his phone number, although he needed to do it twice while Greg fought with his phone’s contact list. Finally the offending number was recorded and checked and Mycroft’s phone pinged for proof.

“Right then, have a great week, and thank you for dinner. Wish me luck for Monday.”

“Good luck for Monday, Greg. Although I am sure you won’t need it.” Mycroft shut the door and waved as the car pulled away. He was left on his driveway, wondering about the enigma that was Greg Lestrade. 

Greg spent most of Saturday morning lounging in bed, watching catch up tv on his laptop and drinking coffee. He wondered at the man he had met the day before, tried to analyze how he felt: the remembered butterflies as he was waiting, the nerves, the dinner… _You know you like him, Greggybear, I do too._ Her voice echoed in his head, and he frowned. Was it really what she would have said? “What would you really have made of him, Kitten?” he said out loud. 

Eventually he dragged himself into the shower, not bothering to shave. He dressed in comfortable clothes—his jeans and a dark navy polo shirt—and tugged on his trainers, grabbed his jacket from the peg near the door and went out to collect his car from the carpark slot behind the building. He drove seven miles to the industrial estate in the next town, parked up and went shopping in the superstore. Browsing the shelves, he heard a familiar voice and turned to see Mary Morstan walking toward him.

“Morning, Greg.”

“Mary, how are you?”

“Fine, actually. Glad to be away from the Hell Hole. How are you?”

“Not bad. Went to dinner at Speedy’s last night. Every bit as good as you recommended.”

“Yeah? Great. So who did you go with?”

“Oh, nobody special. Just a friend.” Greg swore inwardly. Mary was one of the gossips of the school. “Trouble was I picked the same night to go as the boss…” _There, that should deflect attention from me,_ he thought.

“Irene? No, oh my God. Poor you.”

“Well, she didn’t bother me too much. She was out with a man.”

“A man? Who was he? Do you know?”

“No idea, she didn’t introduce us.”

“Well, what was he like? Boy, I’d have lost that bet then. Was sure she couldn’t have anyone daft enough to put up with her.”

“Looked normal, on first glance anyway. They were going on somewhere else though, he was eager to get them away.”

“Grief, who’d have thought? Anyhow, I’d best get on. Talking of somewhere else to be, I’m away to my cousin’s this afternoon. She’s just had a baby girl. Not seen her since the birth so figured I’d best do my cousinly duty and buy the babe something.”

“Oh, that’s nice for you. Go play Aunty Mary then. Have a good time and I’ll see you next week?”

“Oh yeah, you will. Bye then.” He watched her breeze away and breathed a sigh of relief before continuing with his day.

Mycroft spent the morning staring at his computer. He was finishing up the application for an arts grant that had been cut short the day before by Greg’s arrival, as well as checking his emails and hunting for an out-of-print book he was trying to locate for research purposes. He was also gazing at a picture of Greg Lestrade on the school’s webpages. He told himself he was simply checking the man’s veracity, proving that he was actually dealing with Mr Gregory Norman Lestrade, teacher of a mixed class of years five and six at Sherrinford Primary School, St. Aelred’s Lane, Ashton Parva. Each teacher was listed, with a brief paragraph describing their previous career. There was nothing about him being in the Met’s Serious Crimes unit, just a brief reference to a change of career, and being a former policeman. 

The photo was a flattering one; taken three quarter view, Greg was grinning at the camera, brown eyes warm and sincere. He was clean shaven, grey hair just spiked a little, and Mycroft found himself mesmerized. Eventually he sighed heavily, and went back to his work. It took him the rest of the afternoon. By tea time, he gave up and made himself some sandwiches and a pot of tea, taking them out onto his small terrace behind the house. He sat there, listening to the birds twittering in the trees bordering the garden, wondering exactly what he was doing, becoming enamored of a man he had known less than forty eight hours. 

Greg spent that evening watching television, eventually taking himself to bed by midnight having exhausted his options for catch up on the day’s football. Falling into a fitful slumber, snatches of lurid dreams broke through his sleep, and by morning he was tired and irritable. He lay there staring at the ceiling, frustrated, blaming it all on his boss, despite the fact that some of the dreams had involved Mycroft Holmes. Greg was not looking forward to the following morning, knowing he would have to be up early in order to make it to school in time for his meeting with Irene at eight. He stayed in bed, reluctant to get up, wondering what to do with his day. Eventually, he fell asleep again, catching up a few hours without any dreams.

When he next woke, relieved and refreshed, it was nearly lunchtime. He sat at the dinner table in his pajamas, working on his laptop on lesson plans for the following month. He took the time to research some resource material for an upcoming topic, and checked his work emails. Amazingly, there was one from the Museum.

_Dear Mr Lestrade,_

_I felt I should write to you concerning your visit last week to The Sherrinford. I am also sending a copy of this email to your Head, because I felt she should be made aware…_

_Christ,_ Greg thought. _What has he said?_ His stomach plummeted and he felt sick. If she found out, it would be the death knell for his class visits anywhere, never mind the museum. _What changed Mycroft’s mind?_ Greg had to force himself to continue reading.

_...because I felt that she should be made aware that your class behaved in an exemplary manner._

_What?_ Greg frowned, confused.

_If only all school visits were as well organised and well mannered._

Greg started to breath again, but he was rendered totally speechless. 

_I observed your class from a distance as I was checking the contents of one of the cases, and I was impressed at their enthusiasm. I would like to extend the invitation to attend our Museum free of charge for your next visit, in an effort to reward and encourage your class in their learning. I do hope you will consider using the museum more in the future._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

_Director,_

_The Sherrinford Museum,_

_Victoria Square,_

_Ashton Parva._

Greg reread the email at least six times. He still couldn’t believe it. Mycroft was actually complimenting his class, and extending an invite for them to go back to the museum free of charge. He had completely ignored the infraction committed by stephen. Greg’s first thought was to wonder why? Irene would put two and two together, she wasn’t a stupid woman. Mycroft had been introduced to her, and she would remember the name. 

Greg started to write an email, and stopped. He felt as though he should actually say something face to face. He had no idea why Mycroft would do such a thing. He was not even sure what he felt about it. It was a kind thing to do, but he wasn’t sure if it was a wise idea. However, Irene knew about it now, so there was nothing he could do. Hopefully it might help with her decision tomorrow. 

Greg wondered about simply jumping in the car and driving to Mycroft’s to say thank you, but discarded that idea. It was impulsive, and it was very tempting. It was also too much, too soon. In the event, he wrote a very simple thank you email and patted himself on the back for resisting the temptation.

_Mycroft,_

_Thank you. You didn’t need to do this, but I am glad you did._

_Thanks again._

_Greg Lestrade._

_PS See you Friday._

It wasn’t long before a reply arrived. Greg wondered if the man had been waiting for one. 

_Dear Greg_

_I really did admire your children’s enthusiasm, and minor infractions can be overlooked for the right cause. Doubtless you will make certain such lessons are learned, and not repeated, in the future. I would love to see you able to uphold your ethic that everyone deserves equal access and therefore decided to extend my invitation to help you over your hurdle on Monday. As I said, I do not believe you will require good luck, but I hope my email helps. I enjoyed our sojourn last night, and I am looking forward to dining with you on Friday._

_Have we really only known each other three days?_

_Regards_

_Mycroft_

Greg read that one six times as well. He shook himself, and smiled, and wrote one line, hit send, and then took himself to bed. 

_Dear Mycroft,_

_We’ve known each other for less than 60 hours and so far every minute has been worth it._

_Regards_

_Greg_


	7. Be Careful What You WIsh For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work related stress... For both our boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll note I keep lengthening this. It's turning into a long story, but hopefully resolved in a few more chapters. Hope you keep reading, and thank you to all who are following this.

“My favourite teacher was a turtle,” Greg announced as he breezed into the staffroom on Monday morning. “I can remember everything he tortoise…” He was met with scattered groans and laughter from the few staff members who were present, and grinned as he threw his coat and briefcase onto a chair. 

“Someone’s happy,” Mary said, as she put together a coffee for herself at their little kitchenette. She waved a mug at him and he nodded at her gesture.

“Coffee, thanks, and you could say that, yes.”

“Thought you had a meeting with _The Woman_ this morning?” James Sholto looked over the top of his newspaper and frowned. “Not something I could be happy about, believe me.”

“Oh, not happy about that, no, but the outcome isn’t as bleak as it was on Friday, so I’m not as bummed about it as I might have been. We’ll see what happens. I’m frankly sick of the hold that woman has over us…”

“Well, don’t say anything you may regret later. She’s gunning for anyone who speaks out.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m not speaking out, I’m arguing for a cause.”

“Greg, I hate to be the harbinger of bad news,” James drawled, amused, “but I should tell you, that’s the same thing, you know.” He smiled wryly and put his paper down to accept the mug of tea Mary handed him. Greg smiled back and took the mug Mary offered him with murmured thanks. Of all his colleagues, Greg liked Sholto best. He was an ex-soldier, had been invalided out and changed his career fifteen years previously and not looked back. He was good too, inspiring, although Greg considered he might have been better in secondary education. However, when he had broached it one time, the man had shaken his head and grinned and told Greg that he would never have been able to stand a bunch of teenagers who didn’t want to be there. In James' opinion years two through six were much more enthusiastic, less world-weary and more receptive to teaching. 

The three of them sat around the coffee table and contemplated their mugs for a moment, before Mary spoke, her voice low and intense.

“She really has to go.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, she has to go. Look, Louise left last month because that woman bullied her.”

“To be fair,” James pointed out, “Louise wasn’t that good a teacher.” 

“Maybe not but the way Adler did it, it wasn’t right,” Mary argued. “That could have been any one of us. Louise left because of stress, it made her ill. Adler is setting us against each other, and she’s picking off the ones who don’t agree with her.”

“Well, let’s face it, she was appointed to make sure this school became a success,” Greg said. “Now she’s managed it, she’ll likely be gone soon. She’s a career Head, she’ll be looking for pastures new soon.”

“Not soon enough,” James agreed, “but I would agree with you. She’s a new broom and she’s made her mark, and now she’ll be off to somewhere more prestigious. Somewhere in the private sector I would judge. Let the toffs have her, I say. They can pay her an exorbitant salary instead of the public sector. She’d fit in well with the offspring of politicians and entrepreneurs. I’d give her a year here at the most.”

Greg nodded. “She’s not state school material really,” he agreed.

“No, indeed,” James murmured. “She’d look her best at a cocktail party clinking glasses with the odd diplomat before fleecing him to pay for little Johnny’s education.”

“Hm, well, whatever she ends up doing, I wish she’d be quick and move on,” Mary said, voicing her hope. “She had the gall to suggest I was being too soft on my lot.”

“You, soft?” James smiled. “Heaven forfend.” 

Greg chuckled. “She’s an unsympathetic piece of work but honestly, I’ve had worse. My Super in the Met was a bastard of the highest order.”

“Poor you. I can’t imagine worse than her.”

“Well, be careful what you wish for,” Greg replied. “Sometimes it’s better the devil you know…”

00000000000000

“So, Mr Moriarty, I’ve heard good things about you, but this isn’t your usual line of work?”

Mycroft handed the man a cup of tea as they sat across from each other in his office. James Moriarty smiled warmly as he took the cup and saucer—Mycroft had made sure Anthea brought out the best china for his guest, a Royal Worcester tea set—and Mycroft was struck by the man’s eyes; dark and actually quite lovely. 

“Thank you, and it’s Jim, please,” he replied in a soft Irish brogue, “and to answer your question, no, it isn’t, although I am very familiar with the Heritage Sector,” the man added confidently. “While I’ve done a lot of interactive and augmented reality work for museums, my main work is in software development. I have to say though, I am looking forward to working here. Jobs like this keep my work from becoming too office-bound. I do like site visits.”

“Well, I gather this job will only take a few days?”

“Yes, it shouldn’t take long.”

“And you’ll be working with Mr Moran while you’re with us?”

“I shall. Sebastian has been really helpful. I’ll be back on Wednesday as arranged, bright and early. I just thought I would stop by and introduce myself before then. I hope my turning up unannounced wasn’t inconvenient?”

“Not at all. It was nice to make your acquaintance. Please don’t forget to ask Sebastian for anything you may need while you’re here. I must say, I am really looking forward to viewing the completed results. This is something of an innovation for us, and if it goes well, I am considering rolling something similar out across the rest of the galleries.” They chatted some more as they finished their tea, and then Moriarty took his leave to go and consult with Seb Moran and Mycroft reluctantly returned to his own work. 

It was easier said than done. Mycroft’s mind kept drifting, and he checked his watch, wondering how Greg was doing. The email had been a gamble, and he wasn’t sure if it would work. It might blow up in his face, but it had been a calculated risk. He had wanted to do something good for Greg, because Mycroft felt he deserved it. Simply put, Greg was nice. He was a good man, with ethics, someone who had the instinct to protect and nurture and encourage. He was also very easy on the eyes, and Mycroft found himself unable to shake the memory of dark eyes, that cheeky boyish smile, and the hair. _God, that hair_. His fingers twitched. He almost ached to be able to stroke it, to run his fingers through it. He sighed, and tried to pull his straying wits back to the task in hand. 

0000000000000000000

“Good morning, Greg. You’re early.” Her voice was dripping with insincerity. “Do come in. Have a seat and let’s crack on. How was your weekend?”

“Good, thank you, and yours?”

Irene paused a fraction of a second before answering, head on one side as if she was contemplating something. “Enlightening,” she said, and took a seat on the other side of her desk. _There is was,_ Greg thought, _the divide._ She was always establishing the gulf that separated them, keeping the desk between them, enhancing her superiority. _Christ, Mycroft must be rubbing off on me._

“Something amusing?” 

_Damn, couldn’t keep the smile off my face, could I_ …? “Just triggered a memory, that’s all. So, down to business?”

“Yes indeed. So, you seem, on the surface at least, to be doing a good job, Greg. Everyone is happy with your progress, and the effect on your class is so far positive, given the challenges they face. However, it would be a pity to...shall we say, ruin things now.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“You’re doing well, so take care you continue to do so.”

“I don’t see the opportunity arising to stop me.”

“Ah, Greg, the future is always an unknown quantity. So… these visits. I’m afraid I cannot see any argument that will justify my signing off on them.” 

“Well, I received an email yesterday, I believe you did too?”

“Concerning?”

“From the Sherrinford, complementing the children and offering a free visit.”

“Yes, I saw it.” Irene was silent for a moment. “Greg, I hope you realise that email doesn’t change anything?”

Greg frowned. “Oh? Why not?”

Irene’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t take you for a fool, Greg.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t take me for one, either, please.”

“I...I don’t.”

“Good.” Irene regarded him for a minute or two, her eyes studying him. Greg tried not to squirm. Then she smiled. “Greg, Greg, Greg,” she drawled. “Please don’t tell me you can’t see what is in front of your face? Yes, the letter was nice, but I don’t believe it for a second. I know your class, Greg. Your children are still a disruptive, ill-disciplined and disadvantaged mess of humanity, despite your efforts. Granted, there has been an improvement since you took over as their teacher. That speaks more to me about your ability to keep them in line than your ability as an educator, but they are not high fliers, they are not geniuses, they never will be.”

“No, but…”

“No buts. They are not worth expending energy on, in my opinion. This school is no longer struggling, but it is isn’t out of the woods yet and I am not going to sign off on any more trips, full stop, no negotiation. I can see what is happening here, even if you can’t. Mr Holmes is the man you were at dinner with on Friday. You introduced us, if you recall? Oh, he likes you. If I am any judge, he likes you a lot. That letter is a blatant attempt to impress you, to help you, to get into your good books. I’ll be blunt, Greg. Free trip or not, I cannot see how taking your class out of school will help them any more than delivering your lessons in the classroom will. They are not going to benefit…”

“It’s an incentive, Ms Adler,” Greg interrupted sharply. “And if you cannot see that, then there is something wrong. I am sorry you didn’t believe Mr Holmes. They behaved very well indeed, and they should be rewarded, in my opinion.”

“In your opinion. Greg, when I want your opinion, I shall ask for it. Your Mr Holmes has taken a shine to you, which has proved to be beneficial. I shall be taking him up on his offer, of course.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t countenance any further trips for my class?”

“Not for your class, Greg, no, but there are other classes that could benefit greatly from such a generous offer…”

“How bloody dare you?” Greg snarled. “That invitation was directed to my class, by Mr Holmes. You can’t just dismiss the kids in my class like that. I’ll go to the governors…”

“And I shall of course inform them that I do not think this appointment is going well at all. After all, you’ve just come out as gay…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have a boyfriend, Greg. You didn’t object when I suggested Mr Holmes liked you…”

“Accepting one dinner invite does not make us a couple, and that is none of your damn business, or the governors’ either. My orientation has nothing to do with my ability as a teacher. Christ, what century are you living in?”

“It...colours things, though. Don’t you think?" she said contemplatively. "I mean, suddenly finding out one of your teachers is gay, it changes people’s attitudes.”

“And for the record I am not gay, I’m bi. I was married to a woman for six years...”

“And in some people’s opinions, that’s worse…” 

“What…? Why? Why do this, Irene?”

“Why? I would have thought that was simple to see. I have a reputation, Greg. I am going places. This school is my meal ticket. Oh, don’t look like that,” she pouted. “I’m no different from any other Head who is concerned with their career. I am on track for a job that will set me up for life, but I cannot and will not allow anything to go wrong here. I know full well what little terrors your class are. I also know that Mr Holmes is not telling me the whole truth and you have lied by omission. This is a small town, Greg. I know a lot of people here. Someone saw how careless you were with your charges. Someone knows exactly what happened. If the governors knew that you let one of your children get away from you, what do you think would be their response? You’re a probationer, Greg, in your first six months teaching. If you screw this up you will never get another job. I shall see to that.” Greg was speechless. He was trapped and he knew it. He hated it and right then, he hated her. “Oh, look at it this way, Greg,” she said brightly. “I shall be out of your hair soon. Then you can hope you get a more sympathetic Head who is more open to expending energy and resources on lame ducks. For now though, keep your mouth shut and your teaching within these walls and we shall get on fine. Rock the boat and you’ll find you’ve taken on the wrong person. Have a nice day.”

“Oh, my God, what happened?” Mary was the first to reach him as he stepped back through the staffroom door. 

“You look grey,” James commented. “Are you alright?” 

Between them, they guided Greg to a seat and Mary made him tea, hot and sweet. He drank it, hand shaking around the mug. It took him precious minutes to manage to articulate what Adler had said to him. By the time he finished telling them he was, he knew, shaking not with shock but with rage. 

“God damn that uberbitch,” Mary was saying.

“Uberbitch?” the comment broke him out of his funk and he started to laugh, a tad hysterically but it wasn’t the all-consuming rage of moments ago.

“If the cap fits,” she said, shrugging. 

“Are you fit to teach?” James asked. He checked his watch. “Twenty minutes before the bell. You’ve time to relax a little. Drink your tea.”

“I daren’t have more. I don’t want to be desperate for a pee in the middle of the morning. I’ve got playground duty today.”

“That’s what NTAs are for, you know. You are allowed to pee. Now drink,” James ordered, a little of the ex-soldier rearing its head.

Greg glared but realised that they were working to calm him down, and it was having the desired effect. He took some deep breaths and tried to relax. He absolutely must not let it show in his teaching. His class didn’t deserve it. 

“That means there’s a mole at the museum,” James said suddenly. "If she already knew, that means someone saw you." 

“Could have been a visitor, although there were precious few when we were there,” Greg added. “I’ve got to go…”

“Relax, Rhiannon will take charge until you get there. She’s capable, and you know that,” Mary insisted. 

“Here,” James glanced both ways before he slid a hip flask out of his pocket and handed it over. “Quick swig before you go. Dutch courage.”

Greg took it from him and knocked back a gulp. It was very good single malt. He coughed. “Jesus, that’s…” 

“Twelve year old Cardhu, yes.”

“...expensive…”

“Worth it. Now up you get, go teach. You’re strong, Greg. You’ll weather this, and somehow, we’ll get the bitch back for all of it.” 

“Can you arrange a sniper?”

“Nice idea. Leave it with me. Now, go. Put it out of your mind, we’ll go for a drink after work.”

Somehow, Greg got through the day. His kids were on their best behaviour. Cherry was kind to Michael and Greg praised her for being nice. Stephen was disruptive but Greg didn’t lose his rag and merely gave him detention over playtime to think about what he’d done. Dave and Maria both did well in reading. As ever, Greg employed his reward system for work well done. Every nice act or extra hard effort at work added five minutes to the time at the end of the day when the whole class sat down in a group in the quiet corner and Greg read to them. Every negative act or laziness took five minutes off. At present he was reading The Hobbit, and they had reached Laketown. It was almost therapy for him to wind down at the day’s end. The kids went home happy, and he went home relatively relaxed.

Tonight though, he felt betrayed. James wouldn’t hear no for an answer and they went for a conciliatory pint at the Three Legged Mare on the edge of town. They spent a decent evening chatting and when Greg got home he felt better about the day, but the hate for Irene had consolidated. No more Mr Nice Guy. Two could play at her game and she did not scare him. If she wanted to play the homophobic card, well, he knew one or two people in the newspaper industry who would be only too happy to hear about a high flying headmistress who was harbouring homophobic tendencies. For now though, he would keep that one under his hat. 

There was an email waiting for him the following morning. He sat at the table in the window, basking in the sunshine of an early June morning, scanning his emails while eating his cereal. The one from Mycroft jumped out at him.

_Dear Greg,_

_Are we still on for Friday? I have a function I need to attend which may make me later than intended. Would you be alright if I arrived at eight?_

_Regards_

_Mycroft._

Greg sighed. He was tempted to put the man off, break it off before it became anything more, _but…_ He did get lonely, he knew. His flat was empty. So was his life. Although he and James and Mary got on well, could go for a drink after work occasionally, they were not good friends. Mary had a family and James had a wife, they had people who needed them. Greg was on his own. He often didn’t see anybody from leaving school in the evening to going back the following morning. He needed to get out more, he knew. Maybe join a sports group or a class in something at the local college. He should be meeting people. Although he didn’t want to, not really. Bar for Mycroft’s invitation, he had no inclination to date again. Meeting the museum curator had been pure chance, and they seemed to be comfortable around each other. Beyond that he wasn’t sure if he should allow it to go further… 

_Yeah,_ he typed, _that’s fine. It’s not been the best week, so it’s something to look forward to. See you at eight then._

_Greg_

Honestly, he wasn’t certain if he was making a big mistake. He tried to process what Irene had said with her suggestions that Mycroft wanted to impress him. He doubted Mycroft wanted to impress anybody, he was too self assured. He didn’t have the need. Perplexed, Greg tried to put it out of mind and concentrated on his teaching for the rest of the week. He couldn’t bring himself to tell the class there would be no more trips.

000000000000000

Wednesday brought Jim Moriarty into the museum to begin work on the interactive screens in the new exhibition. Mycroft found Seb Moran, his IT technician, standing with Jim in the gallery as the screens were being mounted on pedestals by the rest of the Museum’s techies. 

“Good morning, Gentlemen. Is everything going well?”

“Mornin’, Boss. Everything’s okay so far. Things okay with you?”

“Yes, thank you. I had notification of a grant application having been successful, so things are progressing nicely. Have you heard anything from Tucker at the British Museum, Terry?”

“Yes, I have,” the Exhibition Officer replied. “He’s happy for us to visit the warehouse next week sometime. Andy tells me that all this,” he swept a hand out to encompass the entire gallery, “...will be ready by the beginning of next week. Painting completed, cases positioned, UV sheet fixed to the windows, then we can put the finishing touches on it. We’ve jumped ahead by almost four days.”

“Great news. Well, keep up the good work. I’ll see you all later.” 

Mycroft smiled contentedly. He didn’t like to count his chickens before his eggs were hatched but in this case, things were going well, with a breathing space if something suddenly went tits up. He could relax a little. He decided to go out for lunch and sit in the park at the back of the museum. It was a fine June day, and he wanted to take advantage of it. 

He decided to check his emails before he left and saw the reply from Greg. _Not been the best week? Oh dear_. Mycroft pondered what had happened and considered it likely that something had gone wrong on Monday morning. He should have at least texted to find out. He wrote back quickly, and then took himself off to find lunch.

_I am sorry to hear that. I do hope it wasn’t my fault. If it is, I shall endeavour to make amends and due reparation when I see you. Do take care of yourself. Understand that I am here to chat if you need to._

_With fond regards_

_Mycroft_

Mycroft sat for slightly longer than he had intended, pondering on what to do for Greg. He would have to find out what had gone wrong. He imagined it wouldn’t be pleasant. What was bothering him was where he had come across the Adler woman before. He knew her, he was certain of it, but how? Somehow, his brain failed to supply the necessary link. Frustrated, he went back inside, just as the phone rang.

“Holmes,” he said automatically.

“Brother, dear.”

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Good God, Mycroft, don’t sound as though one of the four horsemen has just arrived to spoil your day.”

“Hasn't he?"

"Brother, I'm hurt."

"Like Hell you are." Mycroft sighed. "I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I have a lot on my mind.”

“So it would seem. It wouldn’t be a romantic partner, would it? Sentiment is so debilitating, I wonder why people entertain it. You were always the sentimental one.”

“As a matter of fact, I do have more in my life than romance. Precious little of that right now, too. I am up to the eyes in preparation for a rather prestigious exhibition…”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“And why on earth would you be calling me about my exhibition?”

“You are hosting a rather important exhibit, are you not?”

“No point denying it, but I would like to know how you know? And what you know? It’s being kept very quiet. or obvious reasons.”

“Yes, well, not as quiet as everyone seems to think. We need to talk.” 

“And why would we need to do that? A chat over tea and scones? I hardly think so.”

“Oh, you’ll want to hear this, Mycroft. Someone is planning a heist."

"Pardon?"

"A heist, and the target is The Sherrinford.”


	8. You Might Just Get It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock puts in an appearance and Greg is confused...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely hope this is hanging together.

“A what?”

“Dense all of a sudden?” His brother’s tone was waspish.

“I am not dense, I merely fail to understand your implications.”

“A heist, Mycroft. I believe that is the modern parlance anyway. Theft, robbery, a break-in. Larceny of the highest order. I don’t care what you call it, someone is planning one, and planning it against your museum.” 

“Well, you’re right about something.”

“I am?”

“Yes, we do need to talk.” 

The whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes swept up the steps to the Sherrinford later that afternoon, his long and ostentatious coat billowing behind him. He stopped at the main desk and eyed Janine up and down. “Here to see Mycroft Holmes. I have an appointment.”

“Name, sir?”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

Mrs Hudson did indeed provide them with tea and scones, enough for an army. Sherlock slurped his tea just to annoy his brother, but Mycroft was beyond being annoyed by trivial things like his little brother’s sense of humour. 

“So, how do you know that someone is going to attempt a... _heist,_ as you put it?”

“Word on the street. I’ve done my own investigating too.”

“How come? I thought you were cosily ensconced with your bees in Sussex.”

“Oh, I am, but you know I need to return to London…”

“You make it sound as though you’re a vampire that requires its home soil to sleep. Honestly, Sherlock, make sense. You obviously have more than just rumour?”

“I do. However, the police won’t listen to me…”

“As if that surprises me.”

“You need to approach them.”

“What?”

“Hard of hearing all of a sudden?”

“What do you mean, I have to approach them?”

“It will be better coming from the director of the museum that is the target for this robbery rather than from me. Dimmock isn’t talking to me right now.”

“He’s a sensible man.” 

“He’s as dim as his name. I swear…” There was a knock at the door. 

“Damn it, what now?” Mycroft muttered, and in a louder voice, called out, “Come in.”

The door opened and John Watson appeared. “Oh, er...sorry, Mr Holmes. I didn’t realise you had company…um...Anthea isn’t in at the moment.”

“No, she’s not in. She has a dental appointment.”

“I...er...I thought we had a meeting now?”

“Oh, John...I’m so sorry. I clean forgot we were scheduled to meet this afternoon. I’m afraid I have an emergency meeting…”

“I can come back.” The ex-soldier was staring at Sherlock with interest. Mycroft noticed that his brother was also staring back.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked suddenly. 

“Pardon?” John was taken by surprise.

“I said…”

“I know what you said, but why did you say it?”

“Well, you’re ex-military, injured in the line of duty, no longer serving, and you’re here...So, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Um..Afghanistan. How did you…?”

“How rude of me,” Mycroft interjected. “Sherlock, this is Doctor Watson, Head of our Anthropology Department. John, this is Sherlock, my brother.”

“Your...brother, right. Well, it’s nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand to shake and Sherlock grasped it and shook, grip firm and dry. 

“Pleasure,” he returned. Mycroft was interested to note that Sherlock had deepened his voice a little and his eyes were cataloguing every detail of the newcomer.

“Sherlock is...an investigator, of sorts,” Mycroft explained. “He works with the police on occasion. I’m afraid he has brought me some disturbing news concerning the exhibition. Apparently he feels there is going to be a robbery attempted on The Sherrinford…”

“Because of the…” John glanced at Mycroft for confirmation without voicing the reason. 

“Exactly.”

“How do you know?” John asked. Sherlock frowned, perplexed.

“I trust Doctor Watson, if you doubt his veracity,” Mycroft said.

“I doubt everyone’s veracity, Mycroft. So, Doctor? Ah yes. Trauma surgeon then?”

“Ex-,” John said, voice flat. 

Sherlock paused, expression blank. “To elaborate on your question, I have my sources,” he said. “Reliable sources. The heist is planned to take advantage of the chaos surrounding the arrival of the...object.”

“Then I will appoint more security,” Mycroft said.

“That would put them off, brother. It might make them rethink and then we wouldn’t get a shot at catching them.”

“I am not going on some harebrained adventure, Sherlock. This is madness. No wonder Dimmock won’t speak to you.”

“Let me get this right,” John said. “You think…”

“I don’t think, I know.”

“Okay, you _know_ there’s going to be a robbery here but the police won’t listen?”

“Seems that way.”

“My brother is nothing if not unconventional, Dr Watson. I think he may have stretched his goodwill with the Met too far.”

“Okay, but there must be something we can do. Can’t you speak to the cops, Mycroft? Might be better coming from you. You don’t have to cite Sherlock’s knowledge, just tell them you’ve had an anonymous tip off.”

“Then they’ll have to investigate.” Sherlock grinned. “Well done, John.” He turned back to his brother. “There is something else. I have reason to believe they have an accomplice here, and a contact outside. I think one of my old adversaries has surfaced…”

“Oh, who?”

“I don’t know who your mole is yet, I have to say that, but do you remember the scandal over that Belgravia brothel?”

“Vaguely.” 

“Oh, come on, Mycroft. You must remember? Father was livid, it affected a member of the Royal Family…”

“Father was an equerry for Her Majesty,” Mycroft explained to John. “The brothel was very high class but one of the younger members of the Royals got caught up in it. Very distasteful. Father said Her Majesty was most upset. However, Sherlock solved it, destroyed the evidence, as per the Palace’s request but the woman disappeared.”

“She had friends in very lofty places, brother, and if not friends, then she at least had enough damning evidence that she could use as leverage. She had help from somewhere. I am of the opinion she had someone engineer a new identity…”

“Are you okay, Mycroft?” John said as he saw the elder Holmes turn pale. Sherlock took in his brother’s expression with slight alarm. John was quick to get his boss to a seat and check his pulse. “Okay, Mycroft, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 _Seen a ghost._ That’s what Mycroft recalled saying to Greg on their arrival at the wine bar. _You look as though you’ve seen a ghost._ Effectively, he had. Memory returned with a rush, and Mycroft recalled where he had seen Irene Adler’s face before; last seen smiling seductively from the glossy photos Sherlock had found at the brothel... 

**0000000000000000000**

Greg spent all of friday in a subdued state of nerves. He shot off as soon as he could after the last child had gone, knowing he should stay to clear up and feeling a little guilty about abandoning Rhiannon to do the tidying, but she had shooed him away with a fond smile once she knew he was entertaining. He had already spent the entirety of Thursday evening cleaning, making sure his flat was suitably organised, the washing done, the magazines put away neatly. He changed the sheets on the bed just in case, and laid in a few other essential supplies. He had no expectations of getting laid but it wouldn’t do to be less than prepared. 

By five he had made their starter, prepped the desert, and the roast was halfway through cooking. He peeled the veg, set them to steam but delayed the start, then made himself a cuppa and forced himself to sit down. He had his clothes for that evening hanging on a hanger behind his door, and once he had drunk his tea he would go for a shower, and change. He was nervous again. Like a bloody teenager, he thought morosely.

By six most of the dinner was ready. He wouldn’t turn the veg on to steam just yet. Mycroft wasn’t expected until eight so he had plenty of time. He turned the oven down on the roast and basted it, letting it slow cook for the last hour. He would need to let it rest anyway, and talking of resting, he uncorked the wine to let it breathe too; a nice red merlot, to go with the joint. He nearly left it too late to shower, even so. He lifted the roast out first and then disappeared into the bathroom. 

_What am I doing?_ He let the hot water wash away the day, scrubbing his hair twice to get rid of the school taint. He had a quick shave, and towelled dry in his bedroom, not sure whether his hair needed product or not. He decided not and automatically picked up the aftershave his wife had liked… and then put it down again. Not tonight. He already felt as if he were betraying her memory. 

He chose a dark red shirt, and his dark navy chinos, sliding his feet into his loafers, sockless, and then heading back into the kitchen where he finally switched on the steamer. He dragged out cutlery and a table cloth and laid two places, setting his best glasses out and bringing the wine bottle over. 

7.30 ticked past. He sat down, wondering at himself. Eight o’clock ticked past. By quarter past eight, Greg was sure Mycroft wasn’t coming. When his phone pinged, he grabbed it, but it was only James Sholto, wishing him a good weekend and hoping he was okay. Greg sent a swift reply to reassure the man, and sighed. At half past he figured he may as well eat before the food spoiled. He dragged a plate over, and then the doorbell rang shrilly in the silence of the flat. Greg was on his feet in seconds but he paused by the front door, unsure. Then he told himself not to be stupid and fumbled the latch and turned the yale.

“I am so, so sorry, Gregory.” Mycroft stood on the threshold, penitent and wary of Greg’s response. 

“Come in, it’s fine,” Greg stood back and held the door for Mycroft to enter. “What happened?”

“Train delay, would you believe? Someone chose tonight to throw themselves in front of it…” 

“Oh, charming. You okay?”

“Me? Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“Well, come on in and make yourself at home. Get comfy, relax, chill, whatever. I think this definitely calls for wine.”

“More than acceptable, Greg, thank you.”

“Food’s ready. We can sit down now…”

“Er...Greg, I...um...I have something you need to know. I think you should be made aware now rather than later…”

“Is it life threatening?”

The question made Mycroft pause. “Er....No...”

“Is anybody going to get hurt?”

“No, not that I’m aware.”

“Then it can wait. Let’s just sit down and eat, and you can tell me afterward. Just let me enjoy this meal with you, and then if there are no more, I can at least say I have had this one chance.”

“Rest assured, this has nothing to do with us. I am not curtailing our relationship, if that’s what worries you. I…”

“Mycroft, sit. Eat. It’s been a long day, and I for one want to relax. Come on, tell me after I’ve had a few drinks.”

Mycroft sighed and smiled. “Alright.” He sat obediently and Greg served them their starter, a baby leaf salad. Mycroft examined it, to find it was scattered with pine nuts and crushed walnuts. It was drizzled with...he tasted it and the flavour burst upon his tongue. “Oh…this is...amazing, truly.”

“Baby leaf salad with pine nuts, walnuts and roasted pumpkin seeds and my own recipe dressing.”

“I had no idea you were such a creative cook.”

“I like cooking, but I like eating more,” Greg replied, grinning.

“What is in this dressing? It’s delicious.”

“Raspberry vinegar, honey and a little bit of olive oil.”

“Creative indeed.”

“I try. Sometimes doesn’t work but you live and learn.”

“You are not afraid to try new things.”

“Not at all. I’ll try anything once.” The grin was back, Mycroft noted. It was a cheeky flirtatious grin, dangerous, roguish. A grin Mycroft found himself easily able to fall in love with. 

_And why shouldn’t I?_ He wondered. 

For the main course, Greg had cooked a joint and all the trimmings. Roast potatoes, steamed veg, the meat so tender it fell off the bone. Mycroft savoured every mouthful, sighing when it was finished.

“Seconds?” Greg suggested.

“I couldn’t,” Mycroft patted his stomach. “That was beyond words, Greg. Delicious.”

“Dessert then?”

“Oh my, really?”

“Only if you want it, but I warn you, it’s chocolate…”

“In a moment or two?”

“Sure, let this settle a while. We could relax on the sofa, we don’t have to eat dessert at the table.”

The two men got to their feet and Greg went through to the kitchen to switch the kettle on. “You want tea?” he called.

“Thank you, yes.” Mycroft sat down with a sigh. 

Greg returned from the kitchen and paused in the doorway. He couldn’t help staring. Mycroft was sitting there, eyes closed, hands folded in his lap, long legs crossed elegantly at the ankles. _Damn, but that man’s legs went on forever…_ He was as ever in one of his favoured suits, a sober charcoal grey number but expertly cut. He looked trim, and Greg’s mouth watered. He swallowed and shook himself and walked into the room. Mycroft’s eyes opened and he frowned.

“What’s up?” Greg asked.

“I still have this thing to tell you.”

“Okay then, hit me with it.” He sat down, side on, facing his guest.

“Where on earth do I begin?”

“Start at the beginning. There has to be one somewhere.”

“Hm, yes, but the problem lies in what to include.”

“Everything?”

“That would take too long.”

“Keep it to the relevant facts then?”

Mycroft leaned back and folded his arms, seeming to have come to a decision. “I have a brother,” he said. “A sister too, but at the moment she is a touch irrelevant. However, they are both younger than I and a great deal more intelligent. My brother was born with an extremely high IQ and you know what they say about the fine line between genius and madness. Sherlock is eccentric, to say the least, and has no idea how to interact with the rest of the world. It sometimes seems he has alienated half of London in his relatively short life…”

“So you have a mad genius brother. Not the worst I’ve heard. At least he’s not locked in your attic.” At Mycroft’s silence, Greg looked up and frowned. “He’s not, is he?”

“Don’t be silly, Gregory. However, you have never met him. Sherlock is something of an obsessive addictive personality and for years I feared he would not reach his 25th birthday. There were many times when I felt the desire to lock him in the attic and throw away the key. However, he seems to have settled into a particular lifestyle which involves his beloved bees and a small cottage in rural Sussex.”

“Bees?” 

“Yes. An eternal obsession of his. He adores bees and everything about them. Keeps them at the cottage and studies them. He’s even written books on apiculture.”

“Apiculture?”

“Beekeeping, Greg. Do keep up, and you an educator?” Mycroft smiled at Greg’s annoyed little huff. “Those books of his have been well received but…”

“Hardly page-turners I expect. I gather he’s not the JK of beekeeping then?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Definitely not. As you can imagine, he is a rather strange relative to own up to possessing, and not one I interact with often, but Sherlock has a rather incredible ability to see details, and to link facts together. He adores problem solving, and has, on one or two occasions, even solved cases for the police.” 

“Yeah? The police don’t usually consult amateurs.”

“As I said, you haven’t met him. He’s annoying, frustrating and even our parents don’t refer to him much any longer, but he has incredible gifts.”

“That’s sad for your parents.”

“They blame themselves. However, he was born like that and while they did not do anything to help the situation, I do not believe they can be completely blamed for how their genetics combined.”

“So, is this what you wanted to tell me?”

“I’m coming to it, bear with me. Sherlock has a...I would say friend but that means little where he is concerned...an acquaintance, if you will, in the police, one Detective Inspector Dimmock. The man is, I feel, a bit in awe of my brother’s abilities and it gives him a bit of a blind spot, which works beneficially for them both, an odd kind of symbiosis. Dimmock gives my brother the occasional case, current or cold, which Sherlock gets to solve, and Dimmock gets the credit.”

“Doesn’t seem entirely fair.”

“Oh, it is entirely my brother’s decision. He takes no credit. For him The Work is everything, and he couldn’t care less about fame. Besides, fame brings with it notoriety and if there is anything my brother hates it is the fuss that would accompany being well known. He likes his privacy. No, the choice is entirely his. However, one case he worked on was far from cold.”

“Oh?”

“Oh indeed, and this time, Sherlock has approached me concerning an impending robbery.”

“A robbery? Where?”

“My museum.”

“Oh. That’s not good. How does he know?”

“Let us say he has....contacts,” Mycroft murmured. “On the semi-regular times he goes back to London, he mixes with undesirables and criminals with equal alacrity, and manages a network of informants that can only be described as a Met Inspector’s wet dream.”

“You know, I’ve not yet heard anything to worry me. I mean, an impending robbery isn’t nice to find out about but you were talking as if I wouldn’t like to be in your company after hearing what you had to say.”

“Well, quite apart from the... _experience_ that is my brother, and believe me, should anything blossom between us, you _will_ meet him, there’s something he has unearthed that is a little disturbing.”

“Oh?”

“Greg...before I tell you what he found, I want you to understand about my brother. He is... _difficult_ when it comes to people I chose to... well, to get to know. He’s…”

“The jealous little brother?”

“His argument is he doesn’t want to see me hurt. Sentiment to him is superfluous, irrelevant, annoying. It interferes with The Work.”

“The Work?”

“Yes. To Sherlock The Work is everything, his brain is the most important thing to him, and everything else is just transport. He has scared away two former partners of mine simply by deducing their intentions and their life history and laying out their dirty laundry for everyone to see.”

“Well, forgive me for pointing this out, but if they had dirty laundry you didn’t know about, you might have been better off without them.”

“It makes for a frustrating time, however, waiting for the moment when my partners run the gauntlet of my brother’s disapproval, and most likely fail.”

“Well, in case you’re interested, I don’t scare easily.”

“I imagine you don’t. However, it is a bit of a moot point. Sherlock will confront you sooner or later.”

“Best cross that particular bridge when we come to it then. So what else?”

“In the course of his liaison with the Met, Sherlock was involved in a private investigation of a high class brothel in Belgravia, about ten years ago. It catered to those who could afford both their services and their discretion.”

“You’re sure? I don’t recall anything about it. There were some high profile cases when I was a sergeant but I don’t recall a brothel in Belgravia being one of them.”

“There is a good reason for that. Our father was equerry to Her Majesty at the time and it came to light that one of the younger Royals was a frequent visitor to this particular establishment. As such she made perfect blackmail material. It was a distasteful time, despite the fact that Sherlock solved the case. He also destroyed evidence, on the Palace’s say so. The Madam of the brothel got away scot free, and disappeared.”

“So, what happened to her, do we know?”

“Well, she operated the brothel under an assumed name, so no luck there. She had no prior convictions, she was not on any databases, and the trail went cold.”

“So who was she?” 

Mycroft’s eyes met Greg’s. “Your boss,” he said gently. 


	9. Penny For Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is a success and leads to more...much more....

“What the Holy Fuck are you talking about?” Greg was reeling from everything Mycroft had just told him. He could not believe such a wild accusation. “My boss might be a lot of things but the Madam of a brothel cannot be one of them. Good God, how in Hell could she keep that a secret? She has to have gone through a DBS check to be a teacher in the UK...”

“Her face most certainly is not on any police database. Sherlock told me later that our father had requested MI6 to get involved, but they could find no record of her. If MI6 cannot find anything, I doubt there is anything to find. She dropped off the radar most likely because she had help, maybe from someone who has managed to craft a new identity and paid for her to go through university. Although she herself was receiving a very profitable wage from her practices and working in that sphere she might have had underworld contacts who could facilitate the kind of disappearance she needed. She’s far from stupid. She would have handled her money well; hidden it, invested it, made sure it was accessible even in the event that she had to disappear. She was holding people hostage with the information she had gleaned from them as her clients. She was a blackmailer…”

“Well, she bloody well liked blackmailing me.”

“It’s her nature. She apparently didn’t want money from anybody, just protection. Favours for when she needed them. Probably still has those files somewhere, as insurance. Nobody ever knew her real name. She was only ever referred to as The Woman. None of this ever made it to police files, MI6 saw to that. The Palace thought it too sensitive to risk anyway.”

“But she’s had loads of teaching jobs…”

“Has she? Really? How do you know?” Mycroft asked. “You said yourself she’s secretive. Has anyone actually checked her career beyond the last one or two? References are easy to fabricate, you just have to know the right people, and pay them.”

“I can’t...no, it can’t be.” Greg frowned, his confusion obvious. “I just… I find it impossible to believe. This is not the kind of thing that happens to me.”

“Nevertheless, I am certain it is she. I knew you would be sceptical, so I had Sherlock give me a copy of two of the photos he procured.” Greg eyed Mycroft warily as he fished the photos out of the pocket of his coat and held them up.

“But if this is real, if she really is this person, then what now?” Greg asked. “I mean, can we go to the police? Or MI6? Does your dad still have contacts?”

“My father retired years ago, although he might still have a way of getting in touch. I can ask, but considering she’s not on any police database, taking this further might be difficult.” Mycroft sighed. “The problem is,” he added, “Sherlock thinks she’s involved in the robbery somehow.”

“Oh, bloody great. How?”

“I have no idea, but he thinks there is an accomplice on my staff, a mole if you will, and someone on the outside.” 

“And she’s the one on the outside?”

“He thinks so.” 

Greg paused. “Hang on though. Strikes me that she’s not the kind to get directly involved with robbery. Blackmail is one thing, but I would imagine robbery would be…well, _beneath her_ , somehow.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“Well, you’re the psychologist, Mycroft, but I used to be a copper, you know.”

“I do believe you mentioned it, yes.”

Greg grinned. “Well, my copper’s instincts are not completely dead. How about that man she was with on Friday? Did you recognise him? Might be he’s involved somehow.”

“Unfortunately I’ve never seen him before. However, that’s not to say he’s not involved.” 

“Might be good to do an e-fit of him.”

“A what?”

“An e-fit. You know, a facial composite. A photofit?” Greg explained at Mycroft’s blank expression. “Computer generated version of his face,” he added. “Get the police to run it, find out if Adler’s date is anyone they know.”

“Not a bad idea,” Mycroft agreed. "Assuming you have a contact who can do that."

Greg recalled something Irene had said to him on Monday. “You know she intimated to me that she knows someone on your staff.”

“Does she indeed? Did she reveal who? You’re sure she wasn’t merely.. _.blagging_ , to put it in modern English.”

“During our meeting, she was very...well, _dominating_ , as you might expect. She had the upper hand, alright. She knew one of the kids had run away from me. How did she know that unless someone had told her? You didn’t, obviously.”

“There were a few people who saw that incident. Terry Grant, he’s our Exhibition Officer, was the man I was talking to when your pupil barged in. Barry, the Gallery Attendant on duty, was the one who chased the child. All the workers in the gallery saw it too. So I am afraid it might be difficult to narrow down the field. We’d have a hard time finding out which one is your boss’ informant.”

“Well, she forced me to capitulate to her decision as a result. I tried to threaten her that I would go to the governors when she refused to sign off on the other visits I’ve booked, because she told me my kids were not worth spending money on.”

“What were her exact words?”

“She told me someone knew how careless I’d been with my kids, my charges as she called them. She told me someone had seen what happened and she asked me what I thought the governors would think if they knew I had let one of my children get away from me. _If the governors knew that you let one of your children get away from you, what do you think would be their response?_ Those were her exact words.”

“Hm, so she does know what happened. I wondered if she was just guessing, but it seems not. What else had she to say to you?”

“Plenty. She told me that as I had now come out as gay, because I was obviously on a date with my boyfriend on Friday, and because one of my kids had escaped from me, the governors would probably be persuaded to terminate my contract because I’m a probationary teacher in my first year and they wouldn’t look kindly on the lack of discipline.” Greg took a deep breath. “She thought you were being kind, or trying to impress me, because of your letter. She recognised your name, and obviously put two and two together.”

“Oh, Greg, I am sorry. That sounds suspiciously like my fault, a complete cock up on my part.”

“Nah, you’re not to blame. I should have agreed to go somewhere else for dinner when I saw her car.” 

“But then I would not have met her, and my memory of her would not have been triggered. She really said that to you, about being gay?”

“Yes. I actually told her I was bi, to be honest, and that it was none of her business, but she said it colours how people regard you, would put them against me for not disclosing it. She also fully intends to take you up on your offer of visiting the museum, but with another class, not mine. Mine apparently don’t deserve opportunities like that.”

“That woman deserves locking away and throwing away the key. I shall have words, believe me. That invitation was for your class and yours alone.”

“Well, she wants nothing to get in her way concerning her promotion. She apparently has a nice job lined up that should set her up for life and she wants nothing to come between her and it. She warned me not to rock the boat.”

“Well, I have a fear that something very large will come between her and any new job. It will probably scupper her boat, never mind rock it.” 

Greg finally took the photos from him and stared at the images. “Bloody Hell,” he said. “She’s younger, but...it’s obviously her. Too good a photo not to be. Bloody Hell,” he repeated, wonderingly. “She still wears the same style dress. Slick as you please and probably costs more than my car.”

“So, we have a problem.”

“Problem? We have to go to the police with this. Look, Mycroft, I have contacts still. I can call someone, get the ball rolling…” 

“Who do you have contact with?”

“DCI Bradstreet, for one. Dave is a decent bloke and a good copper. He’d come on board. How much proof does your brother have?”

“Not much, just the word on the street from his contacts, usually the homeless of London.”

“Not the best witnesses, even if they are good informants.”

“No indeed.”

“Let me talk to Dave anyway. We can at least get advice. He’s still with Serious Crimes and I worked with him when he was a DI.”

“Very well then. But tomorrow, because right now I would like nothing better than to partake of that promised chocolate dessert…”

“Right, yes. Good idea. We need to relax and salvage this evening. Gimme a mo.” Greg dashed off, amazed and somewhat shellshocked by the evening’s revelations. 

Greg watched Mycroft take a spoon of his dessert and smiled. The white chocolate ganache trailed over passion fruit sorbet and mango sauce was his own idea, and it had obviously been the right choice. He had finished it with milk chocolate curls and a sprinkle of gold metallic dusting sugar.

“Oh, my God, this is… Is divine the right word to use? Gregory, when you said the dessert had chocolate in I had no idea how heavenly it would be.”

Greg’s smile widened into a grin. “Well, it’s not something I advertise my talent in. I mean, not very...well, _manly,_ is it? Sprinkling stuff with gold sugar…” 

“Greg, I am surprised at you. There is nothing wrong with a man creating superb dishes like this, no matter how much sugar is sprinkled!” Mycroft shook his head. “In fact the whole dinner has been divine. I’m the one who stuffed it up with mentioning that woman.” 

“No, you haven’t, not really. We can always do another date anyway.”

“Yes, we can. However, I cannot hope to repeat your cooking. I am hopeless.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a challenge to teach you.”

“I am hopeless, Greg. I can burn salad.”

Greg laughed. “Well, I can teach, you know. It’s my job.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to smile. “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“And I am a _good_ teacher, Mycroft.” 

It was _that_ moment, Greg figured later. There is always _that moment_ , the one where everything changes, the pivotal point where things alter course, sometimes for the better, sometimes worse, but it’s the point at which you have to take a chance, that leap of faith. He spooned up a little sauce and ganache and offered it over, teasing Mycroft with it. Greg watched the man pause, eying the spoon, and then he leaned in and allowed Greg to feed him. He licked the spoon, pupils dilating as his tongue swept up the sweet mouthful. Greg felt himself react, an almost electric jolt running through his body as he watched Mycroft enjoy the morsel. 

He leaned closer, took Mycroft’s own spoon from his fingers and paused for a fraction of a second, eyes on his, just to allow him an out if needed. Mycroft didn’t take it. His eyes stayed on Greg’s, and Greg took his chance, closing the distance between them and pressing his lips to Mycroft’s. He went gently at first, then more firmly as he met no resistance. Mycroft murmured a soft hum of appreciation and kissed back, and that moment extended, continued into acceptance, the pivotal point reached. For a moment they teetered on the edge, and then overbalanced into a completely new life, a life where they were still friends, that was certain, but where their relationship had solidified into something more, just like that. 

_He’ll be good for you, Greggybear. Love him well._

oooooooooooooo

Mycroft felt the moment extend, beyond anything he had ever imagined. He let the bliss of the moment take him. He put Irene Adler and his brother and the potential robbery and everything else out of his mind. _This… this is life affirming._ Greg was everything Mycroft could ever have hoped for and more, and he was desperate not to stuff it up. Sherlock’s revelations might manage to do just that; Greg had yet to meet his volatile sibling, not to mention weather his disapproval. _For now though_ , Mycroft thought, praying to whatever God would listen, _just let this moment extend for a while longer, just let me enjoy it for a few uncomplicated seconds before I need to face reality._ However it seemed like reality had taken a sideways shift. 

“Mycroft.” Greg’s husky voice in his ear broke the moment. 

“Gregory?”

“I want to go to bed.”

“Bed?” 

“Yes. With you. Now.”

“You want to….with me?”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I’m not sure...I...I’m open to suggestions, I suppose.”

“I can make plenty of those,” Greg replied, as his fingers twined into Mycroft’s. “Please?” he added softly.

“I fail to understand what you see in me, but…”

“I see enough to know I want you. Everybody else who can’t see how insanely attractive you are must be blind. You’re also kind, funny, intelligent… Mycroft,” Greg said softly. “Stay the night?”

Mycroft pondered a while, knowing that Greg was watching him and also doing his best not to influence his decision, despite his obvious desire to keep Mycroft there. It was surprising, it was flattering, it was…beyond his wildest dreams. “Very well,” he replied softly. “If you would like me to.”

“Yeah?” Greg whooped, and then sobered. “Sorry, I was overcome by the moment. That’s great, really…” He huffed a laugh. “Guy my age shouldn’t be acting like a teenager.”

“Greg, a _guy your age_ should never forget to act like a teenager.” 

“Oh, okay then. So, how about this…” Greg leaned in and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, his tongue swiping across the seam of the man’s mouth, begging entry. Mycroft obliged and suddenly Greg’s tongue was plundering his mouth and Mycroft found himself responding in kind. They only drew apart for air, gasping and laughing, and Greg grabbed Mycroft’s hand and towed him across the hall and into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them. 

Much, much later, Mycroft found himself on his back in bed, Greg’s weight pinning him as the man moved inside him. It was simply bliss. The only illumination in the room was from the streetlights outside, rain pelting against the windows, the odd car swishing past on the road below. There was just the two of them, lying there in the dark, moving together like they’d been doing this for years. They fit together, he thought hazily, as conscious thought dissolved into sensation. He raked his fingers through Greg’s hair, nails scratching through the short strands, hearing Greg’s moan as he did so. He shuddered in Greg’s arms, holding onto him as if he were a rock in a storm. _My own personal storm,_ he thought. _I’m on the crest of a wave, and it’s crashing through me, sweeping away doubts with it._ The storm passed, leaving him spent and sated and impossibly content. He gave up thinking and drifted, sinking into sleep easily.

This was too easy, Greg thought. 

“Penny for them?” Greg murmured. He was staring at Mycroft from a few inches away in the big double bed. There was a little light coming through the curtains, so probably early then.

“Did you know the word penny is over a thousand years old?”

Greg smiled. “Really?” Mycroft could almost see Greg’s mind working as he sorted through his memory for the information. “What would that make it then? Saxon?”

“Scandinavian.”

“Viking then?”

“Well, Anglo Scandinavian to give them their proper name. Vikings were only a small percentage of the populace. To go _a Vikingr_ ,” he explained, pronouncing it vee-king-ger, “was to go adventuring, to make one’s name as a warrior. So not all Scandinavians were Vikings, although somehow we apply the term generically to all those who moved here.”

“Love it when you go all _knowledgy_ on me,” Greg said, nose wrinkling. 

“ _Knowledgy?_ Is that even a word?”

“Probably not, but it sounds good. Brainy.”

“Brainy?”

“Now I know that’s a word. I’m not a teacher for nothing.” 

“Maybe, but being called brainy always made me feel like a nerd.”

“Nah. Didn’t you know, Brainy is the new sexy.”

“It is?” 

“Is in my book, so you can continue being your sexy brainy self as long as you wish.”

Mycroft chuckled, happily. “You are impossible, Greg.”

“Try my best. You need someone like me, to remind you to laugh. You’re gorgeous when you laugh.”

“You need me to keep your feet on the ground. You’re a rogue.”

“Ah, but I’m _your_ rogue.”

“Are you, really?”

“If you want me to be, yes.”

Mycroft stared at the hopeful set of eyes looking into his. Then he smiled, and Greg mirrored it, grinning. _If I could only wake up to those eyes every day for the rest of my life,_ he thought. _I’m long overdue for the Universe to go my way for a while.”_

“What are you thinking?”

“Just how happy you make me.”

“Do I? Great. Glad about that.” 

Mycroft’s expression was that of a contented cat. “Thank you, Gregory. I...I’m really not sure I deserve you.” Suddenly his expression crumpled into a frown. “I am really not looking forward to you meeting my brother.”

“Worries you that much, hm?”

“You cannot imagine.” 

“Okay, well, how about we get it over with then. We should meet up and discuss this situation anyway. In the morning…”

“I thought it was the morning.”

“It’s far too early to be called morning yet. It’s only four.”

“Oh, alright.”

“So, let’s get some more sleep, and when we get up, I will call Dave Bradstreet, and we’ll go from there. Give your brother a call, see if we can set up a meeting, and then we can decide what to do with the rest of the weekend.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? That didn’t sound too good.”

“The reception that made me late last night, I’m afraid we have another one this evening. We have some sponsors coming to take a look at the place in advance of our new exhibition, we entertained one group yesterday and we have the rest tonight.”

“Okay, so...what time do you have to be off then?”

“Well, I was considering...would you care to accompany me to this one?”

“Me?”

“Yes, Gregory. You. As my plus one.”

“Are we not taking this too fast? I mean, two dates and now I’m accompanying you as...what, your partner?”

“Well, we have had sex, Greg. I would have thought that would have been classed as too soon. It seemed to me my inviting you to a reception pales by comparison.”

“You think it was too soon?”

Mycroft sighed. “No, Greg. Actually I don’t think it was too soon. I meant it could be classed _by some people_ that having sex with a new partner after only a week of knowing them and after what amounts to only two dates, the first of which was perhaps nothing more than two friends eating out together, could be said to be too soon. I, however, do not consider our actions to be peremptory. I consider them to be completely natural, and very satisfying. Something about our relationship is...simple, easy, as though we’ve known each other for years.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been wondering about. I mean...I’ve never known anyone quite like this. Not even my wife, God rest her. Ellie was lovely, and we matched well, we loved each other, but… when we met, it wasn’t _this_ easy. She always supported me, she was my rock, but we still used to argue, to disagree all the damn time. Somehow, we fit together though. Even when we were disagreeing, we were okay about it, we always reached an agreement. My other partners have never been this....well, comfortable, or even satisfying. I just don’t know…”

“Don't worry about it, Greg. It is what it is. Come with me as my guest, nothing more. If anyone asks we can say we met recently at the museum, you have an interest as an educator, I heavily support our educational program, etc, etc. We don’t need to tell them we’re together, just that we’re friends.”

“Okay then, might be a laugh. What should I wear? Not a black tie do, is it?”

“Heaven’s no, just a little formal, that’s all. Smart. A suit, if you possess one.”

“I have two, I’ll have you know, and a tux. Several ties to my name as well. I might even let you decide which one I should wear.”

Mycroft shifted to get more comfortable. “I shall endeavour to bring my copious sartorial experience to bear in order to aid you in your time of need, Greg.”

“Glad I can call on my Knight in Shining Armour,” Greg said, wrapping his arm around the man beside him and spooning behind him. “Time enough for all that later though. Let’s get some more rest. You fair wore me out.”

“I wore you out? That’s a laugh.”

“You were insatiable…”

“Hush, Greg. I need my rest…”

Greg spent the next few seconds tickling the man in his bed until they were both breathless and laughing, which lead to kisses, which lead to other things, which meant they forgot all about getting more sleep.


	10. London Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg uses his contacts...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one doesn't seem to get us any further but it's a filler... Have added to the total chapters again! We will get to the end soon folks, hope you enjoy.

“Bradstreet.”

“Hi, Dave? It’s Greg, Greg Lestrade.”

“Bloody Hell, Greg. How are you, you Tosser? Long time, no see, mate. What you up to? Still teaching?”

“Yeah, I’m still teaching. I’m mostly fine. Well...kind of. Look, I called because I could do with your advice. Any chance we could meet?”

“What’s up, Greg? You’re not in any bother, are you?”

“Not really, well… It’s a bit...complex. Did you ever hear of someone called Sherlock Holmes?”

“Sherlock Holmes? The mad bugger that solves unsolvable crimes? Yeah, he works with John Dimmock, poor bastard. Apparently he’s a right tosser. Only reason they let him is the fact he helped the Commissioner.”

“Jesus, really? What d’he do? Rescue his dog or something?”

“His kids, apparently. Kidnap attempt.”

“Bloody Hell. They kept that quiet.”

“Very. Never made the papers. It was just after you left, when you were...you know…”

“Yeah, during my... _hiatus_ , if you want to call it that.” 

“Yes, well, Holmes managed to find the location where the kids were being held. Nearly got himself arrested for complicity along the way though. Was apparently almost supernatural the way he knew. They thought he was part of it until they caught the bastard who did it, plus the fact Holmes had a cast iron alibi for being out of the country when it happened. The kidnapper disclaimed all knowledge of Holmes which also helped. When Holmes deigned to explain how he’d worked it out, it was all a logical progression, but I tell you, Greg, I’ve never met anyone who thinks as fast.”

“So, he started working for NSY after I left?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t help himself though. Swans in as if he owns the place, insults everyone, rubs people up the wrong way, solves the bloody crime then swans off again, bold as you please.”

“Pretty much how his own brother described him.”

“Didn’t even know the Freak had a brother.”

“Freak?”

“Everybody calls him that. He’s sociopathic, according to our police councillor. Gwen met him the once and had him pinned as a sociopath straight off. He doesn’t relate to anybody. His emotions are shallow, and he lacks empathy. He acts superior to everyone in the bloody room. Oh, he can be charming when you first meet him, but it soon wears thin. Hates being criticized, and he’s an impulsive bastard, he dashes off on a whim without sharing anything. Got himself into more than his share of problems because of that. Very high IQ, gets bored really easily, which is why he wants the cases to work on, but he’s a manipulative little shit sometimes. His only redeeming factor is he’s definitely on the side of the Angels. Lawful as all hell, so he’s not likely to cause us a problem, but he’s a cold son of a bitch. I pity his brother really.”

“Well, his brother is a friend of mine, but I’ve yet to have the pleasure of meeting Sherlock. However, Sherlock has brought something to his brother’s attention, a potential robbery being planned against the museum where his brother works. Same town as the school where I teach. I need to talk to someone about it, urgently, really. I need to know where we can go with this.”

“Seriously? How does he know?”

“Potentially it’s very serious. We’ve no cause to doubt his information, but he’s heard word on the street. He has informants, but not reliable ones in court if you get my drift. Look, the museum has a new exhibition opening soon, with some rather special exhibits. It’s all rather hush hush as a result but someone has leaked something somewhere, and Sherlock has heard word that someone is planning a lift…”

“Okay then, can you come to the yard?”

“When? I’m teaching all week and I absolutely cannot take time off.”

“Well, I was thinking sooner than that. Could you manage this afternoon?”

“Well, yeah, but you sure you’re okay with that?”

“I’m calling in anyway, so would 2pm at the pub next door be okay for you? Can’t stay long, but I can manage a half hour or so, would that be enough?”

“That’s okay, yeah. I’ve got somewhere to be this evening myself, so we won’t be able to stay too long either. Any chance we could arrange to have an e-fit done as well though?”

“Who do you need IDing?”

“A guy we saw in the company of someone on the suspect list.”

“Okay then, Greg. I’ll arrange something. I’ll meet you in the NSY lobby, two o’clock.”

“Okay, great. Thanks, Dave. Appreciate it. I’ll...um...I’ll be bringing his brother too.”

“Right then, I’ll see you both soon.”

Mycroft woke to an empty bed. He was comfortable and warm and quite well rested but Greg was gone and the bed on his side was cold so Mycroft decided to locate his partner and find out what was going on. He threw on a robe that was hanging on the back of the door and yawned as he let himself out of the bedroom, padding on bare feet along the hallway. He could hear voices as he approached the living room and Greg was just putting his phone down when Mycroft came in the door.

“Morning, love,” Greg said warmly, his grin sparking off as he saw Mycroft swaddled in a robe that was a bit too big for him.

“Morning,” Mycroft replied. “Anything up?”

“No. Just phoning Dave Bradstreet, get the ball rolling. He wants to know if we can head for London this afternoon? He can meet us at 2pm in the lobby of the NSY building. Would that be okay?”

“Certainly. How are we going to get there?”

“I thought train?” 

“Not a bad idea. We can catch the tube at the station in town.”

“My thoughts exactly. We can be back with plenty of time for your evening reception, hm?”

“I should expect so. We can get a cab to NSY from the tube.”

“Yeah, so, I thought breakfast now, shower, sort clothes for tonight…”

“Then drive us to mine and I shall do the same with my clothes. Fetch yours with you, we can get ready at mine when we get back. Maybe...maybe you would stay at mine tonight? After the reception? May be easier? I can order us a cab from home to and from the museum and then you don’t have to drive?”

“Great, yeah, good idea. I’d be glad to stay.” Greg grinned again and mesmerized Mycroft for a second time.

“Good, that’s...very good. Greg…”

“Yeah?” Greg noted Mycroft was very pensive. “What’s up?”

“Thank you. For doing all this. I mean, it isn’t your problem really…”

“Nonsense, Myc. If I can help you, I will. I’m not about to let you face this alone. That wouldn’t sit right with me. Friends help each other.”

“Why? I mean…” Mycroft stuttered to a stop, mouth open on words that wouldn’t come.

“Why what? Why help?”

“No. I mean, why us? Why are we so...comfortable? With each other, I mean? I keep expecting us to argue, or fall out or... _something._..”

“Soulmates,” Greg said with another smile, but this one was wistful, even a little sad. “My gran, God rest her, used to tell me I’d know when I met my soulmate. Something will click, she said, and everything will be easy from then on. I know it sounds daft but...well, you know I said Elli was my rock? Well, she always supported me and we were best friends as well, but I always remembered what Gran said to me, and I always used to think that maybe Elli and I _weren’t_ actually soulmates. We loved each other, really, but we weren’t always in accord, and we didn’t get along as easily as we might have. Soulmates are more than the sum of their parts. They’re better together, they’re stronger, just... _more_.” Greg shrugged, as if the English language was failing him. “Sorry, I haven’t the words. I can’t describe it better.”

“According to Greek myth, there was a man named Aristophanes,” Mycroft said (pronouncing it Aristo-fan-eez). “He was a comic playwright in ancient Athens, and he knew Plato, the Greek philosopher. The story goes that Plato asked Aristophanes to present a story about soulmates, in which Aristophanes tells that ancient humans were originally made with two faces, two hearts, four arms, and four legs. Fearing the power of humans, Zeus, leader of the gods, felt there might come a day when a human would take his place as ruler. In their arrogance, the humans tried attacking Mount Olympus, so to punish them and to prevent such an incident from ever reoccurring, Zeus split each human in half, with one set of arms and legs, and one heart, and one face. He also split their souls, and left them to wander aimlessly around the mortal world searching for their other half.”

“Their soulmate.”

“Indeed. The story is more complex than that though. It is in itself an interesting story concerning the acceptance of homosexuality. There were apparently three genders, and each human was either male, female, or androgynous. Aside from having two faces, four arms, and the rest, they had two sets of genitalia too. When they were split, they pined and starved and died for the lack of their other half, so Apollo took it on himself to make adjustments, so to speak. Each human ended up with one pair of arms and legs, one face, one heart, and one set of genitalia. He made it so they could join their bodies in sexual intercourse. Apparently until then they had not been able to do so. The androgynous ones, because they had possessed genitalia of both male and female, sought out the ones with the opposite of what they had. So if they had female genitalia they sought someone with male genitalia to complete them. The first gay couples were born of the men searching out men, and women searching out women, because the males and females had both possessed a pair of identical genitalia and were looking for the same thing, not the opposite.”

“Sad story but kinda nice that they accepted folk like that. I wonder if that’s why we call our partner our other half?” Greg mused.

“Soulmates really are more than the sum of their parts,” Mycroft said. “Each completes the other.”

“That’s...that’s how you make me feel,” Greg said softly. Mycroft looked at him, saw unshed tears in the man’s eyes. “Seriously,” he said, furiously swiping at his eyes with his hand, “I have never met someone around whom I feel...like I’ve known them forever.”

“Me either. I keep expecting to wake up.”

Greg laughed. “Me too.” They fell silent and stared at each other. 

“Come back to bed?” Mycroft suggested, holding out his hand. “It’s not yet ten, we have a little time.”

“Time for what?” Greg asked.

“Anything,” Mycroft replied. “I just want to be close to you.”

“Then let’s get as close as we can.” Greg wrapped his arms about his lover and hugged him hard. 

“As you wish,” Mycroft replied softly, hugging back.

0000000000

“Greg Lestrade, you old bugger, look at you. Can’t believe you’re teaching rugrats how to add up.”

“And how to behave like proper human beings. My kids are not going to be future murderers or gang members, that’s for certain, not if I can help it anyway. Dave, good to see you, you tosser. You still giving the PCSOs a hard time?”

“Always. Somebody has to.” Dave Bradstreet stood there, all six foot four of him, looming over other Londoners who passed by them, a rock in the sea of people. He greeted Mycroft warmly when Greg introduced him, shaking him by the hand and smiling widely. Greg noticed him glancing at Mycroft more than once as if comparing him to what he knew about his brother. He lead them to the local pub on the corner and they dived into the cool darkness of the interior, seeking refreshment to alleviate the London Summer. 

“Christ, I am sorry to have dragged you here on a Saturday.”

“Nonsense, Dave. This is important. Good of you to see us both. It was short notice after all.”

“Yeah, well, good job I was here. Working on a nasty double murder in Shoreditch at the mo. We think we may have the bloke responsible but we’re following up a couple of loose ends before we formally charge the little shite. He’s a weasel. Proper little dipshit. Leaves a bad taste in your mouth almost.”

“Had a few of them in my time.” 

“Well, you’re nicely out of it now. Be thankful. All you have to deal with are the petty squabbles of parents whose little darlings didn't come first in the Easter Egg painting competition..."

Greg laughed. "Much you know about teaching, you wanker..."

Dave grinned back. "So, what’s this situation, Greg?”

Greg filled him in with everything they knew. Mycroft answered Dave’s questions concerning Sherlock and what information he had passed on. Finally, Dave drained his pint and sat back.

“Frankly, Guys, I’m not sure what we can do with this.” Greg didn't like the man's lack of enthusiasm.

“Do? You can investigate, surely?”

“Greg, I don’t have to tell you about our lack of manpower, do I?”

“There must be something we can do? I mean, Mycroft might have got further if he said he had an anonymous tip off.”

“Look, without more proof, even if you’d called in a tip off, there’s not a great deal we can do. I mean, you have no potential date…”

“Actually we have," Mycroft answered smoothly. "At least, it was reported that the chaos surrounding the arrival of certain objects to the exhibition would be the time they would use. The exhibition opens on the 20th July. Some of the objects in question are being shipped the week before, on a specific date that has already been arranged. So, ergo, you have a date.”

“Right, well, I can have a word around, see if there’s anything we could follow up on, but honestly, you know as well as I do that we need more than the word of a few homeless folks. And your boss, Greg, if she really isn’t on any police databases, she will not be traceable. We won’t be able to trace either her or her background, although if you suspect fraud, we might be able to get the Sweeny involved. They’ll need a lot more than rumour though.” 

“The _Sweeny_?” Mycroft was puzzled.

“Don’t tell me you never heard of that before?” Dave smiled.

“Sweeny Todd, Flying Squad. It’s rhyming slang, Myc,” Greg explained.

“Ah, I am enlightened.” 

“Not to mention a rather infamous television series from the seventies,” Dave added.

“Before my time then,” Mycroft commented. 

Greg shot Mycroft a disbelieving look. For all the academic brilliance in that man’s mind, it seemed he was missing out on certain areas Greg thought everybody knew. “They deal with serious crime too, but serious fraud, organised crime, gangs, that kind of thing.”

“I can get in touch with Ron Barker, see if he can help.” Dave got to his feet. “He’s a DI and he’s done more fraud cases than I’ve had hot dinners. Can I give him your number? He could arrange to come see you, sort out an e-fit for you as well.” 

Greg nodded. “Sure. Mycroft?”

“Certainly. The exhibition does not open for another three weeks. We planned it to coincide with the start of the summer holidays. If Mr Barker can visit me, I saw the man in question and I have good recall. In the meantime, Chief Inspector, far be it from me to tell me your job, but could you trace Ms Adler's career prior to taking up the position at Sherrinford Primary? Surely if there is any anomaly you might pick it up there?”

“Actually, that's not a bad idea. I'll get someone on it on Monday. So we have a plan. Well, sorry not to be more use, gentlemen, but we’ll see what Ron has to say. Anyway, I’ve got to get gone or the wife’ll have my balls on a plate. Take care, Greg. Nice to have met you, Mycroft.” He shook their hands before moving off, and they watched him wend his way through the patrons near the bar and disappear through the door.

“I felt certain we’d get more from him,” Greg said, disappointed.

“Not to worry, Gregory. I feel we are somewhat further along. We’ll have to see if Sherlock can get us more concrete proof.”

“Wonderful. From what you said, that’s going to be just peachy.” He checked his watch. “Come on. We have an hour before we need to catch a train home. Fancy a walk?”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere. I’m with you, so anywhere is good.” 

“Guilty pleasure?” Greg asked as they walked. The sunlight was bright, filtering through the plane trees and dappling the path beneath with shadows. 

“Salted caramel.”

“Salted caramel what?”

“Anything. I simply adore the taste. Bad for me, but I cannot summon up the requisite motivation to care.” Greg laughed at Mycroft’s expression. “You?”

“Me what? Oh, right, yes. Um...turkish delight. I love roses, you see. Reminds me of Gran’s garden. Grandad kept plenty of roses because Gran loved them as well. Blue Moon, Ena Harkness, Iceberg, Peace. Have you ever read the story of the Peace rose? It’s amazing.” 

“I cannot say I have.”

“Need to lend you the book. I’ve got it somewhere. It would appeal to you, being historical.” 

“I look forward to it.” Mycroft’s smile was satisfaction itself as they walked. He badly wanted to reach out and hold hands but didn’t dare. It was too soon, he thought, expecting Greg would not appreciate it. He was startled therefore when Greg’s fingers interlaced with his a little later, and Mycroft looked up to see wariness in Greg’s eyes. For answer Mycroft simply tightened his grip and saw relief replace the wariness in the dark brown depths. Those eyes, he thought, reminded him of fine chocolate; a rich dark velvet brown. They had certainly managed to melt his heart. 

The two men walked back to the tube, chatting all the way. They stopped to get a coffee at a vendor’s stall on the embankment. Watching the Thames flow past, Mycroft sipped his coffee and got lost in his thoughts. The function that night would be an important PR exercise, and hopefully get them more interest from their patrons. Mycroft had invited several local civic dignitaries to involve themselves more closely, including their local MP and the Lord Mayor, as well as the leading lights of some local community groups. He had also managed to get three locally born actors to attend; one of whom was in a popular soap, one was a familiar face on game shows while the other was more well known, a Royal Shakespeare Company actor with a string of television roles and a history of supporting charities and arts schemes.

Greg sipped his coffee and gave Mycroft some peace as they stood there quietly amid the bustle of the city. The ever present roar of traffic was notably absent in the town where he taught, and Greg realised he missed the sounds and the smells and the sheer grittiness of the capital. 

“Are you alright, Greg?” 

Greg turned at the unexpected voice and stared at Mycroft for a moment before answering. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Mycroft said gently. 

“Nothing really...I just...I kinda miss this, you know? London. The capital city. It’s quiet where we live and work. It’s….”

“Peaceful?”

“Bland.”

“I thought it was necessary for you?” 

“It was. I mean, I’m told I had a complete collapse, mental breakdown, you know? And yes, I did have to leave my job, heal, mourn, whatever, but honestly I cannot recall much of it. I understand I was not in my right mind…”

“Little wonder, considering your loss.”

“Yeah, but… I mean, why me? Plenty of folks lose people every day and don’t snap like I’m supposed to have done.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not fully, no. Spent four months in hospital, Mycroft. Secure hospital, at that. I was...mentally unstable. Even when I left, it was clear from my evaluation that I couldn’t continue at work in a police role. So I went into something else that made use of my skills.”

“It bothers you, though, doesn’t it?” Mycroft said, perceptively. “You’re worried it could happen again. Were you violent?”

“Apparently, yes. They were calling it PTSD but I’m not so sure.”

“Your recall is hazy at best, you cannot remember exactly what happened and you have an account from other people whom you do not know and therefore do not fully trust as to how you behaved. You worry it might affect our relationship.”

“Spot on as always. You’re brilliant.”

“I observe, nothing more. Troubling as it is for you, sometimes the human brain blocks out things it cannot cope with. It’s a defence mechanism. Sherlock lost his best friend when he was six. The two of them were inseparable. Then the boy, Victor his name was, drowned on a family holiday. Sherlock had waved him off in the car with his parents and little sister, and he never returned. For years Sherlock would not talk about it. When he did, he referred to Victor as Redbeard, and said it was a dog that died. Somehow his brain had transposed a boy into a dog. Less traumatic, the doctors told us. Sherlock had locked the pain away and coped with it the only way he knew how, by forgetting it. For years he would not go near swimming baths, he disliked the seaside, and rivers too. He ceased visiting the one that ran at the bottom of our family home, and even when asked, he could not tell you why. So you see, the brain is complex and difficult to comprehend sometimes, but acts out of self preservation.”

“Fascinating. That would explain a lot about your brother too. Is he okay now?"

"He underwent therapy which was partially successful, but the damage is still there."

"Shame. But what can I do about me, though? I mean, if I wanted to remember?”

“Why do you wish to remember what was an obviously traumatic time for you?”

Greg crumpled his cup and threw it in the bin. “Because I can’t? Because I feel like I have no control over it. I don’t want to be a slave to my instincts. I want to know what happened so I know how I behaved. Hell, I don’t want to be in a position to injure someone I care about.”

“Gregory, you need to stop worrying. Now I am aware of your history, I know to watch for signs, but I very much doubt those same signs will arise again unless you experience another significant trauma. So I think you may put those worries out of your head or you will find they impact negatively on our time together. If you need to talk, then consider me your sounding board.” 

Greg couldn’t help the smile that blossomed at Mycroft’s words. His past was worrying him, it worried him every day, but he was used to it by now. To hear Mycroft accept him though, warts and all, that was... _there were no words_ , he thought. He had, by some unaccountable chance, bagged himself a wonderful compassionate loving man. _The Universe works in mysterious ways,_ Greg thought, reaching to grasp Mycroft’s hand in his own again. Fearlessly, they walked hand in hand to the station to get their train home. 


	11. Teacher, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday night at the museum, and there are developments...

“Oh, my!” Mycroft stood in the doorway of the bedroom, frozen to the spot. Greg turned from the full length mirror and saw him standing there.

“Oh, God,” Greg said on seeing Mycroft’s expression. “Please tell me this is okay. I wasn’t sure what to wear…”

“Gregory, you look...stunning.” The teacher was wearing a summer suit of pale natural linen, with a dark blue tie over a pale blue shirt. It fit him perfectly, and he looked completely at ease in it. 

“Think you need your eyesight testing there, Myc.” 

“My eyesight is in perfect shape, thank you,” Mycroft replied waspishly. “I think it is you who have a problem.”

Greg’s smile blossomed again. “What do I have a problem with?”

“The fact that anyone might find you good looking, not to mention stunning. Is it so hard to believe?”

“Come on, I’m not _that_ attractive.”

“Well, you may find it hard to accept but in that suit you look... _devastatingly_ attractive, Gregory. I applaud your tailor.”

“But I didn’t go to a tailor. I can’t afford that.” He sounded dubious. “I look _that_ good? Seriously, Myc?”

“Seriously, Gregory. How can I ever compete?”

“Is it a competition?” Greg replied. “Besides, you look gorgeous, Mycroft. You always do. I mean, that suit...probably cost more than a quarter's rent on my flat...” The fine grey wool looked amazing on the man’s lean frame. 

Mycroft snorted indelicately. “Oh please, I am not that well off.” 

“What, you mean I haven’t bagged myself a wealthy partner? And here was I hoping to be a kept man.” He laughed at Mycroft’s scandalised expression and closed the distance between them. Mycroft tried to maintain a haughty attitude, but failed as he was dragged into a hug. Greg tried to be respectful of Mycroft’s suit, doing his best not to crease it. “Sorry, love,” Greg said, smirking, “but your face…” Mycroft grumped and pulled away. “Aw, don’t be like that,” Greg said fondly. 

“I fail to see why not. I am insulted.” Mycroft huffed and straightened his tie. “You intended to become a kept man, Gregory? For me to shower you with gifts and attention…” 

“Well, obviously,” Greg said, his grin widening. “I’m planning for my retirement here.”

“You are impossible,” Mycroft said, exasperated but amused. “A rogue.”

“And you like me like that.”

“God help me, I do.” Mycroft paused and stared at Greg as he stood there, so smart in his linen. “I…” Mycroft took a deep breath. He had known this man a week, and he was about to declare undying love for him… “I think…” _I can’t...can I? Can I really be in love yet? Really?_ Mycroft schooled his expression into something less vulnerable. _Caring is not an advantage_. _It gives one all kinds of trouble..._ Despite the fact that he found it almost impossible not to care, Mycroft disliked the vulnerability. 

“It’s bad for you, you know?” Greg said gently.

“What?”

“Thinking. Can be bad for you.”

Mycroft huffed again. “Gregory, we had better finish getting ready. The taxi arrives in a few minutes.” The moment broken, to Mycroft’s relief, Greg smiled and nodded, grabbing his overcoat and shovelling his wallet into his pocket. 

“Done,” he said. “You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then, onward and upward, as they say.” 

At that moment, a taxi’s horn sounded outside. With a final look at each other, they exited the room.

Later that evening, Greg was standing across the gallery, sipping a rather expensive prosecco and watching Mycroft from a distance as he moved between the guests at the reception. The man was an erudite and gracious host, chatting with everyone, smiling and genial. Greg admired his fortitude, given the number of guests and the noise they were creating. It was giving him a headache. He sipped the wine and tried to ignore the doubts in his mind. This whole business of a potential robbery, not to mention the mole in Mycroft’s staff, was bad enough, but add to those his impending meeting with Mycroft’s brother, not to mention having to return to school knowing that his boss was—or had been, at least—some kind of Dominatrix, it was almost too much… _Bloody Hell,_ he thought, _when did my life turn into this?_ Everything was somewhat surreal. He now had a partner who just happened to be a man, a man he was rapidly falling in love with. _Love? Is it too early? How do I know it’s love, and not something else? It’s a long time since I even thought about love…_

Greg tipped his glass up to drain it and nearly choked. He blinked, unable to process what he was seeing for a moment. A man had entered the room, a tall man who wore his dark evening suit like a second skin. Greg turned swiftly away, looking around for some escape. Mycroft saw Greg turn desperately around and make for the door and frowned slightly. Wondering what had spooked his partner, he disengaging politely from the elderly—and generous—lady patron he was talking to and headed unobtrusively in the direction Greg had gone. He passed Anthea on the way and murmured in her ear to cover for him for a few minutes. Mycroft went through the open door into the wide corridor beyond, past a few scattered guests who had spilled out of the room, making his way between cabinets of antique silver and 18th century glassware. Greg was nowhere to be seen. Mycroft wandered, trying not to draw attention to himself by hurrying. Suddenly his phone pinged in his pocket. He took it out and glanced at the caller display.

**I’m with Elli. GL**

Mycroft made sure he wasn’t followed as he went to where he knew Greg had hidden himself. He let himself through the rope barrier and into the gallery where the Pre Raphaelites were on display. Sure enough, he found Greg in front of the painting of Lizzie Siddal. 

“Greg, what on earth…?”

“Mycroft, he’s here!” Greg turned to him quickly, urgency in every line of his body.

“Who?”

“The man who was with my boss, that’s who.”

“What, the man from the restaurant?”

“He just walked into the hall. Bold as brass, calm as you please. Mycroft, who is he?”

“I don’t know. Greg, calm down. This is most likely completely innocent…”

“Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Mycroft, if this is coincidence…?”

“Gregory, I believe I have already stated that the universe is rarely so lazy. However, we can ill afford to let the man know we are rattled. We should find out everything we can about him. I will engage him in conversation, and attempt to find out what he is calling himself. I can feign that I don’t recognise him, after all, we met once and then only briefly. I can act the bufflebrained academic when I wish to.”

“Fine then, but how about me? What do I do?”

“Don’t do anything. We met him once and then very briefly. Anybody might forget a face after just one brief meeting.”

“You’ve got a photographer taking shots of the event, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Any chance you can pose for a photo with him?”

“Your reasoning?”

“Send it to the police. Better than an e-fit, which is what we were going to do. Also see if he’s camera shy.”

“Very well. I shall see what I can do. I’ll have a word with Anthea too, see if she knows who he is. If he’s been invited, there is a guest list of everyone. If he’s someone’s plus one, she’ll find out who.”

“Good. Meanwhile I am going to keep out of the way.”

“Keep a low profile then. If he approaches, don’t avoid. Just feign familiarity, but don’t own up to where you know him from. As I said, feign a bad memory.”

“Okay, I can do that.” 

Suddenly, Mycroft pulled Greg in for a kiss, but there was something off about it. Greg went with it though, humming in approval, giving out a little moan. When they broke, Mycroft’s eyes were on the door. “We were observed,” he said, voice low.

“Who by?”

“I’m not sure. I saw their reflection in the glass, then movement as they left. Could have been anyone.”

“How long were they…?”

“Again, I’m not sure…”

“Maybe a good idea to get back then, keep an eye on him, see who he talks to.”

“In case he makes contact, you mean?” Mycroft chuckled. “Good grief, Gregory, When did my life turn into a spy film?”

“Blame that brother of yours. He’s the one found all this out.”

“Maybe but I am not giving that man credit for more than he’s worth.” Mycroft took Greg’s hand and lead him out of the gallery. “Come on, Maigret, let’s return to the scene of the crime…”

John met them at the door. “Ah, Mycroft, there you are. There’s someone wants to see you.”

“Who, John?”

“He...er...he said he’d be in your office?”

“Seriously? Sherlock chooses this time to want to see me?”

“Yes, he arrived a few minutes ago, said he needed to speak to you urgently. I gave him the key code…”

“You did what?”

“It’s important, Mycroft. Very important. Go talk to him.”

“Did anybody see him arrive?”

“He was careful not to let too many people see him. He saw me and beckoned me over, asked me to find you. I’ve also got someone I need to keep an eye on here. Sherlock asked me to.”

“Who is it?” Greg asked. “Wouldn’t be an IC1 male, about 6 foot, mid forties, charcoal suit, purple tie, brown hair turning grey above his ears, side parting, sharp nose, dark eyes..." He paused for breath. "Would it?” John nodded, startled. “He’s the one we were talking about. Who has he spoken to so far?”

“He was chatting for quite a while to Janine earlier,” John replied. “They seemed pretty companionable. He's talked to plenty of others, although not for as long. Sherlock said he’d tracked the man here.”

“Did he give him a name?”

“Nope, not yet.”

“Well, come on, let’s find him. Mycroft, go talk to your brother.” Greg moved off, without watching to see if Mycroft went. The Museum Director spared Greg’s retreating back one last glance before he left the room. 

Five minutes later Mycroft let himself into his office to see his brother lounging on one of the chairs, brandy glass in hand.

“Brother mine, you finally made it.” Sherlock raise his glass.

“Cut the facetious bullshit, Sherlock. I see you’ve been at my best brandy again.”

“Well, you were not here to entertain me, and I hope you noticed I was discreet enough not to crash your party.”

“Noted. Thank you. So you’re recruiting John into this now?”

“I trust him.”

“Bullshit again, Sherlock? You don’t trust anyone, and neither does he. He has trust issues, he told me so when I had a one-to-one with him when I first started work here.”

“I think you might find he's changed, and what’s more, I trust him with my life. However, now is not the time to discuss my private life…”

“Sherlock, at NO time do I need to discuss your private life. However I shall gather from that little tidbit that you and the good doctor are embarking upon a meaningful relationship? I commend you on your quick work. You only met him on Wednesday?" 

"You can talk. We're Holmeses, Mycroft. You of all people should know how quickly we work."

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. "Quick work indeed. However, John is one of my better employees, and what's more, his department is run with military precision. Break him, Sherlock, and you shall be dealing with me, so take great care."

"John is...not boring, in the least. While he may lack a certain creative imagination and his intellect is barely above that of a goldfish, John is an extraordinary conductor of light, and I consider him essential. Breaking him is not an option, despite your brotherly threats."

"Also not something I need to discuss right now. However, congratulations. Now that’s over, what have you to tell me that’s so important and urgent?”

“I tracked a man here tonight. He’s at your party, brother dear. Currently chatting like old friends to that receptionist girl of yours. The Irish one, what’s her name…?”

“Janine.”

“Janine, yes. More to her than meets the eye as well. The man’s name is Charles Augustus Milverton. He owns a gallery in Soho, and is currently the latest partner of one Irene Adler, AKA The Woman, AKA Sylvia Freeborn, AKA Katherine Harrington.”

“I recall she referred to him as Charles, but she didn’t introduce us.”

“Hm, well, Charles has an interesting history…”

“I’m sure. Better make this quick, Sherlock. I cannot be gone for long.”

“Shut up and listen then.”

000000000000000

John and Greg snagged drinks from a passing waiter and scanned the area, finally finding their eyes drawn by the lovely Janine chatting once again to the man they were looking for. 

“Let me go interrupt,” John suggested. “He doesn’t know me. Maybe I can find out something useful.”

“Okay then, I’ll stay here...Oh, Mrs Hudson…” 

Martha Hudson turned to find Greg staring at her. “What on earth is the matter, Greg?”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine, dear. What on earth is wrong?” 

Greg hesitated but...he knew Martha Hudson, and what’s more, he trusted her. “It’s a long story…”

“I’ve got time, young man. This was set to become rather a boring night but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to change really soon. Let me get a refill, and then I’m all yours. You can tell me all about it...”


	12. Forging Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, blame real life. It's getting bigger, this story. If anyone can spot mistakes, please tell me. I'm very tired, been hugely busy at work, and this hasn't come within spitting distance of a beta.
> 
> Hi again, guys. You'll note I've edited, changed a character name here or there, and done a little more work on the plot as a result. The changes fitted better, hope you agree.

Greg told Martha Hudson everything. Once he finished, he felt rather better. He hadn’t realized how much the whole affair had been bothering him. Mrs Hudson was staring at him contemplatively over the rim of her glass. He broke eye contact with her and glanced across the room seeing John still in conversation with their target. She followed his gaze.

“Is that the man?” 

“Yes. My boss’... partner, I guess you could say.”

“Oh, I know who he is.” 

“You do? How?”

“He’s one of our current supporters. Charles Milverton, that’s his name. Charles Augustus Milverton. Dodgy character too.”

“How long have you known him?”

“I know _of_ him, I don’t know _him_ , and he doesn’t know me from Adam. I’m not the kind of person to move in his sphere.” Martha took another sip of her drink and frowned. “The museum has some of his grandfather’s collection on permanent loan.”

“His grandfather’s collection?”

“Yes. George Milverton was an industrialist, made his money in ship building. He loved Ashton Parva though, it was his childhood home apparently. You could ask Molly more, she knows all about it. He collected some fine pieces by Lawrence Alma Tadema and John Ruskin. Beautiful watercolours. We have some prints in the shop.”

“And his grandson is who exactly? What does he do that he can afford to stump up money for this place?”

“He owns a gallery in Soho, some property in London, and promotes young artists who show promise; Turner Prize winners, that kind of thing. He’s a regular supporter of the museum, donates to its funding quite a lot. He’s considered a VIP around here, but he’s a pretentious twit.” She laughed. “Personally I think it’s a tax dodge, because he almost never visits. It’s no surprise that Mycroft doesn’t know him, Mr Holmes hasn’t been here long enough to be familiar with all the people who have supported us over the years and Mr Milverton is one of the more reclusive ones, despite being a pretentious know-it-all when you talk to him. Lady Smallwood over there, for instance, she’s donated far more than Charles Milverton ever has, she often visits the museum with friends in tow, and she’s very pleasant, always got a good word for the staff.” 

“So why do you think he’s dodgy?”

“I don’t _think,_ Greg, love, I _know_. It was all over the papers a few years ago, he was implicated in a forgery ring. Surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

“I was in homicide and serious crimes, Mrs Hudson, but not much fraud. Besides, we dealt with a lot of cases every year, there’s a lot of them I don’t remember much about.”

“Yes, well,” she said, looking him up and down as if she didn’t believe him. “He slid out of it, of course, like the slippery snake he is. He has some powerful friends, but he was guilty as sin if you ask me. Whole thing was rather a mess. My late husband, bless him, he knew Charlie-boy was in deeper than he was letting on. Terry knew one of the copyists in the ring…Oh, don’t look like that, Greg. My hubby was a bit fly himself, you know. How on earth do you think we could afford all those American holidays?” She chuckled. “Your face… Oh, cheer up, you look like your dog died. Your mum wasn’t above a bit of extra work either, if you know what I mean. Oh, nothing like _that_ ,” she said, elbowing him the ribs. “I meant cash in hand, you know? Off the books, spare cash, nothing that need be declared to the tax man. How else do you think she afforded you new shoes for school and still managed not to lose her benefits? Neither of us was that flush.”

“I just...don’t like to think of mum doing stuff like that, that’s all. Or you, come to that.” 

“She was a good ‘un, your mum, and don’t you forget it. Always put you first, and never did anything that would hurt anybody else. Not to mention that my husband did a lot of things he never told me about. I only found out some of them after he died.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m...I _was_...a policeman. Goes against the grain to think of you or my mum doing anything illegal…”

“You can put that notion right out of your head, Greg. Apart from fleecing the tax man of a few precious quid now and again, nothing your mum did was illegal. She worked every hour God sent, and what’s more, she did it for you.” 

“Yeah, I know. Anyway… what happened with Charles whatsisname?”

“Well, the copyist…”

“Copyist?”

“Yes, dear. You’re only a Forger if you get caught. So the _copyist_ Terry knew told him Charlie had cut a deal with the Fraud Squad to welch on the rest of the gang and keep his name out of it, but he didn’t know them all. Charles Milverton went to ground for a few years, but the next thing we know though, he’s opened a gallery in Soho, and he’s the art critic for two mainstream newspapers and he has columns in magazines, articles in journals, even a book or two.”

“So how did he come back from that? Must have had some backing?”

“Somebody with clout, if you ask me.” Mrs Hudson drained her glass

“Clout, Mrs Hudson?” Mycroft appeared by her side. “I hope you are not advocating violence to a former officer of the law.” 

“Oh, Mycroft…” She swatted him on the arm, none too gently. “You startled me. I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort. I was telling Greg about Mr Milverton over there.”

“Ah yes, Sherlock has just been telling me all about him. It seems Mr Milverton is something of an elusive character, not to mention a nefarious one, although it pains me to admit that I have been informed he is one of The Sherrinford’s best supporters.”

“What did your brother have to say?”

“Plenty. I think there is too much to think about tonight. We cannot do anything anyway, we have no proof. No connection to anything, least of all this supposed robbery. So, we wait, I am afraid. Now we have a name, though, we can talk to your friend at the Yard again and pass it along when his contact calls me. We’ve no longer any need for an E-fit, as you suggested. The only problem we now face is, as Sherlock says, we need them to make a mistake…”

“Mistake? What if they don’t make one?”

“Then there is nothing we can do. Look, Greg, I know you want to help, but we can do nothing. There is frankly nothing to link Milverton or your boss to anything right now. They may be linked to each other, your boss might be a former Madam of a high class brothel, and Milverton may have been implicated in a fraud ring but either way, they have done nothing yet, nor are they wanted by the police for anything. Frustrating though it is, I am afraid there is nothing whatever we can do.” 

“That’s not strictly true, brother dear.” They all spun round to find Sherlock standing behind them, eyes fairly boring into Greg as he stood there, leaving Greg feeling as though he had been assessed, weighed, measured, and well and truly found wanting. The tall, thin man with the messy dark hair and piercing aquamarine eyes paced closer and almost pinned Greg to the wall.

Greg forced a smile onto his face and stuck out a hand. “Sherlock Holmes? You must be Mycroft’s brother. I’m Greg Lestrade…”

“I know who you are. You are my brother’s paramour and I take a dim view of anyone foolish enough to think they might be of any consequence to him. Or to me…”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft tried to maintain a neutral face but he was struggling. “Please, not here, not now.” Mycroft’s voice was barely short of pleading. 

“What, brother? Why not here and now? There is no good time to inform your paramour that he has made a gross mistake and should take himself back to wherever he came from and never lay eyes on you again? Or he will have me to deal with.” The glare took on a fierce defiance.

“Really?” Greg replied carefully, eyes narrowed.

Mycroft was aware that Greg had locked gazes with Sherlock and the two men were currently engaged in a battle of wills, neither giving ground. Mycroft was quietly impressed, but then, Greg was an ex-policeman with a policeman’s stamina for facing off aggressive felons. A quick glance around reassured Mycroft that nobody was actually watching them, despite the current situation, and the museum director breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He was about to request that they move to somewhere less conspicuous when Mrs Hudson took matters into her own hands. There was a simultaneous “Ow!” from two mouths and both men found one of their ears pinched by surprisingly strong fingers. 

“Stop it, the both of you, right now!” the lady ordered, voice low but still fierce. “This is not fair on Mycroft, not one bit! If the two of you can’t behave like grown ups, so help me, I shall drag the pair of you out of here by your ears right in front of everyone!” She let go with a snap of her fingers and glared at them both. “I thought I’d taught you better, Greg,” she snapped, then fixed her glare on Sherlock. “You are not being fair to your brother, young man,” she declared. “He works hard, he tries hard, and this is an important event for us, and it’s not just his job on the line if we don’t suck up to our sponsors…”

“Sycophantic rubbish…”

“It is not rubbish, it is necessity. Sycophantic it may be but I dare say you would kiss someone’s ass if you needed something badly enough.” Sherlock couldn’t actually deny that, despite his obvious desire to refute the statement. “Now, are you two going to behave long enough to leave this room?” She received nods from both men, much to Mycroft’s amusement, although he kept it off his face. Mrs Hudson cast him a glance as she followed the two men out the door, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Leave them to me,” she said. “You schmooze as long as you need to. I’ll take them to your office.” 

Mycroft watched them go, then turned his attention to the people in the room. Lady Smallwood drifted toward him in a cloud of pastel chiffon and Clare De Lune. “Mycroft,” she purred. “Is everything alright? You seemed to be having words with that young man…”

“Alicia, hello,” Mycroft said warmly. “I’m afraid my brother decided to pay me a little visit. He can be quite a handful sometimes.”

“I see the redoubtable Mrs Hudson had it in hand, but tell me, Mycoft, who was the other gentleman? I saw you two together earlier. He’s quite the catch.”

“That,” Mycroft said softly, “is Gregory. He’s a teacher at Sherrinford Primary.” 

“He looks just right for you, Mycroft.” The lady smiled indulgently. “Is he nice?”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, Alicia, he is, very nice.”

“May one ask, are you two...together?”

“I hope so. Early days though.” Alicia’s smile was fond. "We are maintaining a low profile though."

The lady nodded, conspiratorially. “Understood. My lips are sealed. But let him take care of you, Mycroft,” she encouraged him. “You deserve it. Now, I need to talk to you about a donation. One of my investments matured and I would so like to gift something to the museum this year…”


	13. Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Greg meet head on and things get ugly. I am not very nice to Sherlock in this one. He disappoints John too. And we have a Bamf Mrs H. Enjoy.

Mrs Hudson lead the way briskly upstairs and across the gallery to the door that lead behind the scenes. Once through, she took them back to Mycroft’s office and closed the door behind them once they were into Anthea’s room.

“You two,” she said menacingly, “are going to settle your differences like grown ups and you are not allowed to ruin this event for anyone, you got that?”

“I wasn’t going to…”

“It wasn’t me…”

“Shut it!” the lady snapped as both men answered simultaneously. “Now take a deep breath, and go talk to each other. In there,” she added, pointing at the office door. “And do not come out until you’ve straightened things out between you.”

“Anyone would think I was six years old…” Sherlock began but Mrs Hudson held up a hand and interrupted sharply.

“I looked after him when he _was_ six years old,” she said sharply, stabbing a finger at Greg. “Believe me, in some ways I don’t think much has changed. Get in there, the both of you, and make it quick. I don’t intend to be here all night.”

Sullenly, both men did as they were bid, and Sherlock took vicious delight in slamming the door behind them. For a long while the two men simply regarded each other from opposite sides of the room, Sherlock's narrowed eyes taking in every detail of the man who faced him defiantly, Greg's dark eyes giving nothing away. Eventually, Greg spoke if for no other reason than to break the ice and get things moving. 

“So…” he said, but barely had the syllable left his mouth but Sherlock interrupted angrily.

“I will not be put off by some whey-faced old harridan with the mental age of ten…” The words were barely out of Sherlock’s mouth before he found himself pinned against the wall with an arm across his neck in a choke hold. Sherlock struggled but Greg was determined to put his point across.

“NEVER say anything bad about that woman again,” he growled dangerously, his voice little more than a husky growl. “You are not worthy of wiping her shoes! She’s a good lady, she’d do anything for anybody, and she cares about Mycroft, so you can stop it with the righteous behaviour. If you have a problem with my dating your brother, you can take it up with me, but you leave her out of it. If you have a problem, you can fuck off anyway!” He let the man go, anger seething through him. On top of everything else that was happening, it was a pity Sherlock just had to be a prick. “Why couldn’t Mycroft have a normal, loving brother instead of you, hm? What on earth did he do to deserve you?”

“Normal? Pfft! Normal doesn’t exist and caring isn’t an advantage, as you will find out, Lestrade. My brother doesn’t know how. He doesn’t appreciate _loving_...”

“I think you’ll find that’s not true.”

“What would you know?” Sherlock snapped back.

“Enough. I know enough. Mycroft is… old fashioned, yes, and a gentleman, and it suits me fine. You on the other hand…What’s your game? Jealous? Big brother not giving you enough attention?”

“Jealous? Of you? You’re deluded. I have nothing to be jealous about. Look at you. A pathetically lonely man, with no wife, no children, no money either. You’re a teacher, so you obviously failed at something in your life. My brother is rich, successful and academically brilliant, so why would he be interested in you? Look at you, an ex-policeman. What happened? You left the force because you suffered a failure…” Sherlock was suddenly in full deduction mode, eyes all over Greg as he stood there defensively. “So what was it? Kicked off for taking a bribe? No, no, not a bribe...Ah, you couldn’t take the stress could you? You were asked to leave…”

“Shut. The fuck. Up!” Greg’s hands had balled into fists. 

“Or what? You’ll make me? Was that it, Greg? Did your aggression get the better of you? Hit someone too hard during an interview…?”

“For a detective, you are one dense tosser, you know that?” 

“Enlighten me, Greg.”

“Why should I? I owe you nothing, you obnoxious piece of shit. Stop deluding yourself that you’re trying to protect him. I am not a threat to him, or to you either if you’d take a moment to actually think.”

“So when you inevitably break up with him, what happens then, hm?”

“Why would that be inevitable?”

“Because people like you are interested in my brother for one reason and one reason only.”

“Oh really? And now you are going to enlighten me?”

“Alright then if you insist on dragging this out. His money, Lestrade. You cannot tell me that holds no interest for you?”

“You think I’m a gold digger? Seriously?” Greg could not believe his ears. “Christ on a bike. What goes on in your funny little brain? You are wasting your intellect, you know that? Listening to Mycroft, you could be anything you set your mind to with your skillset, but no, you insist on trying to scare me away, by attacking my integrity and my honesty and my intelligence. Look at you. You’re so scared you might lose him, you scare away any man who is remotely interested in him. Give him a break, Sherlock. He’s lonely too, and I am not interested in his money, I want him for his body and his brain, simple as that. I don’t care if you don’t believe me, because truly, it is none of your business, but I’ll tell you something for nothing, if you continue this, you’ll lose him. You’ll push him away and you’ll have no one, you got me?” 

A knock on the door interrupted them and John poked his head in. “You two finished?” he asked testily. “Everything is winding up downstairs.” 

“Don’t look at me, John,” Greg replied. “This prick here insisted on giving me the third degree because he doesn’t believe I have the best interests of his brother at heart.”

“Not a surprise.” John sighed dramatically. “Sherlock, you really should stop this, you know. Mycroft is a big boy who can make his own choices.”

“Do you blame me?” Sherlock snapped. “This man’s current employer just happens to be an ex-dominatrix who ran a high class brothel and is now planning a heist on this very museum. I am not convinced he is not the contact I am looking for.”

“What? Are you serious?” Greg demanded. 

“Sherlock, what on earth is going on here?” Mycroft appeared at the door, looking harassed. “Are you seriously suggesting Greg is complicit?”

“He has inveigled himself into your affections very neatly, brother, at a rather opportune time. After all, did I not suggest she needed someone on the inside?” Greg turned horrified eyes on Sherlock, and his face drained of colour. 

“How...how dare you?” Greg was aware that his voice was shaking. “First you accuse me of taking bribes, then suggesting I need anger management...Where do you get off on this? Now you think I’m involved in this robbery somehow…”

“And why not? You turn up on the scene conveniently at the right time, you work for the person I believe to be behind the scheme, you worm your way into my brother’s affections and you obviously intend to get him to trust you and then to tell you all about the museum and when the exhibit is being delivered. Privileged information, Mr Lestrade. Valuable too. To the right bidder. What is she paying you, hm? Supplementing your meagre teachers’ wages, I’ll bet. I am sure your Met colleagues would love to hear about this, and I can imagine a prison sentence wouldn’t be good for even an ex-detective inspector…”

Speechless, Greg turned to Mycroft and his heart sank as he recognised the very thing he had hoped not to see in the man’s eyes. Doubt. Devastating and final. Panic welled up in him; choking, disabling panic that robbed him of any and all control over his situation. He hadn’t felt like this since… Suddenly the room was too hot, his chest felt constricted, his heart was hammering. 

“I’m n.n.not… I c.c.couldn’t…” With one agonised look at Mycroft, Greg turned tail and fled the room. There was no reason for Mycroft not to believe his brother. It was too convenient, his appearance on the scene. Christ, back when he was a copper he would have had to consider the self same facts…

“Gregory, stop!” Mycroft called but Greg either couldn’t hear or had chosen not to. Horrified, Mycroft couldn’t make himself follow. “Sherlock!” Mycroft rounded on his brother. “Explain yourself.” 

“I do not think there is anything to explain.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find there is,” John said carefully, “You’d better have proof, Sherlock.”

“Did you see him deny it?” Sherlock demanded.

“Sherlock, I cannot believe this of Gregory. Why on earth would he do this?”

“Money is a great motivator, brother.”

“Yes, it is…” Mycroft stared at the door, not certain what to do. “What did you say to him?”

“Yes, what did you say, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson was blocking the doorway, her face thunderous. “Explain why Greg has just dashed past me like the devil was on his tail. He looks terrible. ”

“Merely that he is a failed policeman, which he is. I may have mentioned that he got kicked off the force because he could not take the pressure of the job and maybe, just maybe his aggression got the better of him. Those who can’t, teach,” Sherlock declared and looked at them each in turn. “I think he may be the contact we’re looking for.”

“Contact? Whose contact?” Mrs Hudson asked. 

“The person behind the supposed robbery,” Mycroft explained. “Greg’s boss....”

“What? I don’t understand…”

“Sherlock accused Greg of being his boss’ accomplice,” Mycroft explained, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “He thinks Greg is only after my money.” 

“WHAT?” In two strides, Martha Hudson crossed the office floor. Before anyone could stop her, she had drawn back a hand and slapped Sherlock hard across his cheek. He reeled back, shocked to silence.

“How dare you?” she snarled at him. Nobody dared move, as if scared to break the sideways shift reality seemed to have taken. It was like finding out your favourite granny was a spy, the change was so unexpected. “You know absolutely nothing, young man”, Mrs Hudson seethed. “You with your so-called amazing brain. You might be clever but you’ve no common sense. That man,” she pointed the way Greg had gone, “lost everything a few years ago. He had a lovely wife, and she was expecting their child, and then suddenly,” she snapped her fingers, “gone! Just like that. Overnight. She suffered pre-eclampsia and died on the operating table, and that poor little mite died with her. Greg went from a successful happy man to a broken wreck in no time flat. He lost everything he worked for, had a complete breakdown. Of course he left the police because he couldn’t stand the stress, he was suffering PTSD. He recovered, enough to retrain, to change his career to give him some peace. He’s a great teacher and a good man, so you can apologise to him, Sherlock Holmes. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And if I hear you mutter that out-dated slur on teachers again, I’ll do more than slap you!” 

“Why did he not tell me that then? He had ample opportunity to refute my claim, to say something,” Sherlock protested. “The fact remains that he did turn up somewhat conveniently, and he is in a prime position to receive sensitive information. I make no apologies for my supposition…” John’s angry huff silenced him. “What? Oh, I’ve disappointed you,” Sherlock said, thoughtfully. “Haven’t I? Tell me, John, could I have come to any other conclusion, based on the facts as I saw them?”

“Yes, no, I don’t know, maybe. The fact remains, Sherlock, you were a bit of an arse there…”

“A bit!” Mrs Hudson’s exclamation was incredulous. 

“We _need_ answers, John, and Gregory is... _was_ a source of information.”

“And you were wrong about him, Sherlock. Wrong. Admit it. You were just...wrong. Lie to me if you must but don’t lie to yourself. If anybody wants me, I’m going to look for a drink.” John marched out the room, resorting to his military precision to order his thoughts. 

Mycroft turned sadly to his brother. “And if Gregory will speak to me again after this, I will be very lucky. Another one bites the dust, Sherlock. I hope you are happy. Close the door when you leave, the other guests are almost gone. I need...I’m going home. And no, you are not to follow me.” 

Mrs Hudson watched her boss leave the room, his whole demeanour defeated. “As I said, young man,” she said sadly, “you’ve no sense at all. Your brother works very hard, too hard, to make sure this museum is successful. He’s the youngest curator this place has ever had, you know. He’s got a lot to live up to. He’s not been here long and yet he’s done more in months than our previous curator did in years and we’re so much better off.”

“My brother suffers with sentiment…”

“Thank God one of you thinks straight then.”

“My thoughts entirely. I am above all that…”

“I wasn’t referring to you, young man. Look, love, your brother is lonely, and Greg would have been good for him. They were good for each other. I’ve not seen Greg smile like that since he lost Eleanor. For your sake, I hope they can make it up, because your brother cannot continue like this. For Heaven’s sake, do your research. Greg Lestrade was an exemplary officer, and a kind compassionate man. There is no way he can be in on this and there is no way he wants your brother’s money. Now go home, and think about what you’ve done. You’re supposed to be the Detective, so solve this. Find the real person behind it all. It isn’t Greg, I’d stake my life on it.”

“Let’s hope you’re not asked to do so then.”

**000000000000000**

The last guests had gone by the time Mycroft joined Anthea in the lobby. She looked at him sympathetically. 

“Have you seen Gregory Lestrade?” he asked.

“I did, sir. He caught a cab.” She checked her watch. “Ten minutes ago, sir.”

“I see. I suppose I had better do the same then.”

“Sir? Is everything alright?”

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. “No, Anthea, it is not. I have done Gregory a disservice and I am not proud of it. I am… I don’t know what to do about that.”

“Talk to him,” she said. “Nothing happens without good communication.” 

“I am not sure he will want to talk to me though.”

“If you don’t ask, you won’t know, sir. Tonight went well, so I think we can relax for the rest of the weekend at least. Goodnight, sir,” she said with en encouraging smile. “Technical will clear things away. You get home, sir, and...good luck.”

**0000000000000**

Greg had flagged a cab down at the bottom of the museum steps. He was about to give his own address but then realised he had left the car at Mycroft’s place. He gave the cabbie the address and sat back, chewing his bottom lip and thinking hard. _What now?_ He had no idea what to do. He had no defence against Sherlock’s accusations. The bastard was devastatingly convincing. How could he defend himself, other than to get Mycroft to talk to his colleagues at NSY? They would back him up on what had happened to him, on the truth of it all, but that lack of trust in Mycroft’s eyes had hurt. Still, on balance, Greg couldn’t find it in his heart to blame him. Mycroft was under a lot of pressure, he had a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. Greg slumped in morose silence in the back seat all the way to Mycroft’s house, paid the cabbie, and watched the tail lights bounce off down the street before it struck him, he had left his car keys in his overnight bag, in the bedroom. _Oh, bloody great, now what…?_

Mycroft took the taxi that he had asked anthea to phone for, lost in his thoughts all the way back to his house. He expected Greg would have gone straight home. He knew he had probably sunk any chance he may have had with the man, that just for a moment he had let doubt and worry rule his heart, and Greg had seen. Just when the man had needed an advocate, Mycroft had let him down. He knew what he would find when he got home. Greg would be gone, and Mycroft would be spending Sunday alone again, most probably every day from there on would be spent alone.

Therefore the lone figure sitting on his doorstep was a surprise when Mycroft finally got home. He paid the cabbie and got out, seeing Greg sitting uncomfortably on the step, despite the warmth of the summer night. He got to his feet as Mycroft approached, looking decidedly embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he husked. “Left my keys in my bag, in the...um...in the bedroom…”

“Ah, I see.” Mycroft saw all too well. Greg had merely waited for him to return so he could claim his belongings and leave. He fished his keys out and opened the door, knowing without looking that Greg was following. In the hall, they stood uncertainly, neither knowing quite what to do.

“I’ll just…” Greg indicated up the stairs. “Shall I?” 

“I...yes, fine…” Mycroft had no idea what else to say. 

Greg paused on the stairs. “Mycroft…”

“Gregory, I’m sorry,” Mycroft blurted out. “I know you are not involved… It was unforgivable of me, to mistrust you like that. Sherlock...I tried to warn you about him…”

“What changed your mind about me? He made a compelling argument after all.” Greg was aware his voice was noticeably flinty but there was nothing he could do to soften it. 

“Mrs Hudson, actually,” Mycroft explained. “She...she did what I should have done. Stuck up for you.”

“She did?”

“Quite vehemently, in fact. Told my brother in no uncertain terms what had befallen you to make you leave the police. Sherlock is... _unreasonable_ when it comes to my partners. He is, as I warned you, overprotective and jealous. I am very sorry you were subjected to that. He had no right, but I should have stepped in, not allowed him to demolish you like that!” There was a moment’s silence.

“Apology accepted.” Mycroft looked up at Greg in surprise. “I mean, there was really no way for you to know if I was lying, was there? Sherlock, damn him, did draw a reasonable conclusion. I mean, I might be working with Irene, could have been the reason she took me on…”

“The idea is ludicrous, and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, as I said, I might have lied to you. Look, Mycroft, in my career I saw a lot of liars and they were far more creative and devious than me.”

“Even so, I am certain of your innocence in this matter.”

“Well, can’t be too careful. There are a lot of people willing to take advantage. I mean, I’m a gold digger who is after your fortune, you know? You should be vigilant.” Mycroft huffed a laugh, but sobered quickly. Grey blue eyes fixed their gaze to brown ones. 

“I _am_ sorry, Greg,” Mycroft began. “Truly…”

“I know. Look, your brother is convincing, and you were taken by surprise. I know you needed to process what he was saying. I don’t condemn you for that. Nice that Mrs H stuck up for me though.”

“She did, most fiercely. She even resorted to violence.”

“Violence?” Greg frowned. "Mrs H?"

“Struck my brother a rather fierce blow across the face for his presumption.”

“Did she indeed?” He grinned. “I remember how scary she was if I ever did anything wrong when she was looking after me.”

“I rather think that a box of nice chocolates ought to be winging its way to her very soon,” Mycroft suggested. “We shall return to London and get her some nice ones.”

“Mycroft…” 

“Yes?”

“You said _we_.”

Greg watched Mycroft’s expression turn wary. “Was that...presumptuous of me?”

“Well, maybe, but...I don’t mind.” Mycroft heard Greg’s voice soften and his eyes lit with hope. 

“Can I…?” Greg took a deep breath. “Would it still be okay...well, if I stay the night?”

“Oh, Gregory…”

“I mean, if it isn’t, that’s fine...it’s just...I drank a bit much and while I’m not over the limit, I am probably close, and I’m aware it’s late and...well, if you want I can take the couch.” Aware that he was babbling, Greg nevertheless found it hard to stop talking. Mycroft was staring at him oddly. 

“There is no need for that, Greg, honestly. Of course you can stay. I...Can I offer you a nightcap then?”

“Yeah, sure. What you got?” 

“Brandy, whisky, cocoa, tea…”

“Cocoa, please. Just the thing to settle the nerves. Been a bit of an upheaval after all. Come to that, are you okay?”

“Me? I am fine, now. Come through to the kitchen and I shall put the kettle on. You can tell me all about what Mrs Hudson was like when you were little.”

“Oh, that’s easy. She was a dancer…”

“A dancer?”

“For a club, in town. Discreet gentleman’s club it was, and no, I was never allowed in. Mum used to serve in the bar, waitressing. They both worked for the sweet factory in the packing department, but they made extra money two nights a week there. Somewhere I have a photo at home, of the two of them, mum in her rather short uniform, bouffant hair do, tray in hand, with Mrs H in her dance gear, standing next to her looking like a Las Vegas showgirl.”

“Does she know you have it?” 

“Not sure, why?”

“It sounds like prime blackmail material…”

Greg grinned. “ You’d never survive the attempt,” Greg warned. “You’re a bad man, Holmes. A bad, bad man…”


	14. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to apologize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long, it took a back seat to Evening the Odds, and then flu happened...

Life was good, Greg thought, waking to sunlight streaming through the curtains. Dust motes danced in the knife of light as it sliced across the bed covers. He yawned and stretched and scratched his chin. Stubble rasped under his fingers. He needed a shower and a shave and coffee… A snuffle beside him made him turn and remember… 

After their cocoa the previous night, Greg had been a little nervous. He really did not want to return home, but he wasn’t happy staying either. However, one thing had lead to another and they had spent a couple of hours just talking, sharing thoughts, and then Mycroft had shyly slipped a hand into his and lead the way upstairs. They hadn’t done anything more than strip and get into bed and slide close and wrap their arms about one another, settling for sleep quickly and comfortably. It had felt...nice, forgiving, grounding in a way that sex would never have done. 

Mycroft was sprawled across his half of the bed, snoring lightly. Greg grinned and watched him for a moment, wondering. _To have this every day? To wake up to this man in my life and in my bed… Can I do it all again?_ He wasn’t certain, knowing the devastating result when he had lost both Eleanor and Kitty, in one night… _What will I do if I lose him as well?_ A small crass part of him suggested he wouldn’t have childbirth to blame if he did. He buried the thought, but the coping mechanism of black humour was familiar though, and almost comforting. _Just have to deal with it when it happens, if it happens._ His Gran’s voice came back to him, _cross that bridge when you come to it, young man, and not before_. It was no excuse not to enjoy what they had. 

Mycroft woke to a cool bed and the window open, sunlight streaming into the room, a breeze billowing the muslin curtains in. The day was warm and dry and made more pleasant by the fact that Mycroft had spent the night in a way he had never believed would be possible. He could hear sounds from downstairs, sounds which told him Greg Lestrade had not just spent the night but had stayed too. While he lay there, there came a knock at the door. _On a Sunday?_ He struggled to kick the covers off and grabbed a robe, when he heard the door being opened and voices… _Oh, my God, Sherlock?_

Greg was making coffee when he heard the knock on the door. It was Sunday, and he knew there was no post on a Sunday, but it might be a friend or neighbour of Mycroft’s and here he was in his jimjams… He padded to the door, peering out through the spy hole and blinked. _Sherlock?_ Greg fumbled the keys from where they hung on a hook near the kitchen door and juggled them trying to find the right one.

“Damn it, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, testily, voice muffled by the heavy door. “It’s the brass one with a square top.” 

Greg found the key and turned it, shot the bolts top and bottom, and finally opened the door to stare at Sherlock to find that the man looked distinctly harried. “Well? May I come in,” he demanded, “or shall we do this in full view of the neighbours?” “Do what? We about to have another shouting match?”

“I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime, far too much…”

“Do come in then.” Greg stood away and the man slid by him, as if afraid to touch. “So to what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked, closing the door firmly behind them.

Mycroft got to the top of his stairs to see Sherlock enter, and froze, unsure what to do. So he waited, in order to see what his brother had to say.

“So to what do we owe the pleasure?” he heard Greg say. 

“I’m sorry.” 

_What?_

“What?” Greg said, as if he hadn’t heard properly.

“You heard me. Do I have to repeat myself?”

“You’re apologising?”

“Yes. I am sorry for wrongly accusing you of being complicit in the forthcoming robbery of The Sherrinford…”

“You Bastard,” Greg muttered, before flinging his arm around the man and dragging him into a rough hug. Sherlock startled, freezing in shock.

“What…?”

“I knew you were better than that, lad,” he said gently, letting the startled man go. “Apology accepted, for what it’s worth. Let me guess, Mrs H? John?”

“That’s hardly a guess, considering you are choosing both.”

“So?”

Sherlock huffed. “Both of them.” Greg laughed at the uncomfortable admission. “I suppose my brother is still in a post coital stupor upstairs?” Sherlock asked sullenly.

“Well, he’s still in bed, if that’s what you mean, but you have a lot to learn, sunshine.”

“I am reliably informed that make-up sex is common and efficacious in healing rifts…”

“As I said, much to learn, even if you are picking stuff up from John. All we did last night was talk, and he apologised. Told me about what Mrs H had said.”

“Said? That woman would have a creditable right hook if she ever chose to use it properly.”

“Yeah, heard about that too. She does have a creditable right hook, by the way. Just be thankful she chose not to use it.”

“My humiliation is absolute.”

“Nah, you did make a creditable conclusion, to my way of thinking. Given that you didn’t have all the data and wanted to scare me away from your big brother…”

“I did not want to... _scare you away_ , as you put it. Not purposefully. I… I explained it to John and Mrs Hudson last night and they both suggested most forcefully that I speak to you. Today. Mycroft was very badly hurt when he was younger. I remember when it happened I nearly lost him…”

“Lost him? How?”

“He thinks I interfered, but I found something out about his partner at the time and...I couldn’t let him carry on…”

“Look, lad, come on through, let me get you a coffee and we can sit down in comfort while you tell me…” The two men disappeared into the kitchen and the voices died. 

Mycroft crept downstairs, unwilling to reveal his presence when he felt he might be on the brink of learning something that Sherlock may be unwilling to divulge should he find out Mycroft was listening in. He knew the house enough to know the third step from the bottom creaked, so he avoided it and used the newel post to help him the rest of the way down. He slid around the corner carefully, aware that he was having to act the spy in his own home. 

“So, what gives?” he heard Greg ask.

“My brother,” Sherlock began, “had ambitions for a very different career once upon a time.”

“What career?”

“Politics.”

“What happened then?”

“Byron did,” Sherlock replied, “and I am not referring to the poet.” 

Mycroft had then to listen in silence as Sherlock told the whole sorry tale to the man of his dreams and cringed inwardly that this part of his life was being laid bare.…

000000000000000000

“Come on, pumpkin, we’re going to be late.” Mycroft watched his lover take the stairs two at a time and tried to follow quickly, but he never quite felt as agile as Byron despite being barely into his twenties and fresh out of university. Nor as cool, he reflected, watching the tall slim owner of his heart as he pressed the button on his key to unlock the doors of the Porsche sitting on the drive outside their flat. Byron Wenham-Whyte was, by nature, as flamboyant as his namesake, and almost as brazen, although he had copious amounts of charm and used it shamelessly. 

“I wonder what you see in me sometimes, Snowy.”

“What? Pumpkin, you know I love you. Don’t start on that one again…” 

There was the barest hint of irritation in the man’s voice as he dropped into the car and started the engine, but he shot Mycroft one of his trademark ‘Snowy’ Whyte smiles and Mycroft felt his heart flip and said no more. This was the weekend he was going to introduce his partner of ten months to his parents, and he was fizzing with anticipation. 

Since coming out to them more than two years ago, and not being disowned or disinherited or anything remotely awful, Mycroft had been waiting to prove he could capture and keep a suitable partner. Mummy had insisted they meet, and this weekend father would be home as well. As equerry to Her Majesty, he was often at the Palace and often at inconvenient times. 

They received Byron well, welcoming him to the household and treating him kindly, and Byron had fitted in well, charming both his parents with his old fashioned gentlemanly behaviour and erudite conversation. 

Mycroft, however, had reckoned without his little brother’s interference. Sherlock had always been a difficult child, his IQ far above the other children at his local school. Mummy had taken to homeschooling him until he reached an age that necessitated socialising with others. Even so, he did not mix well, and often caused disruption. He was growing into a willful teenager with a sharp mind, given to manic bouts of energy and a gift for deduction that left most folks breathless and often somewhat pissed off to find their dirty laundry aired in public. 

With the introduction of Byron, however, things went from bad to worse. Once the charming man arrived at the Holmes household, Sherlock took an immediate dislike to the man and went into an horrendous sulk. Moreover, he went out of his way to cause trouble. Over the next year, Mycroft ventured back home with his partner another half dozen times, only to suffer the slings and arrows of his little brother’s venomous tongue more often than not. 

Mycroft was happy, though. He was in love, and his career in politics was just beginning, and things were good. Due to his father’s influence, he had secured a minor Civil Service position but there were good prospects of promotion and one or two people had their eye on the Holmes boy. Nobody cared about his orientation, provided he kept it behind closed doors. Eighteen months in to his new job, and the London Herald began to publish some disturbing leaks of information from the Palace.

“Mycroft?”

“Father, how are you?” His father did not phone as a rule, not unless there was something urgent to be dealt with. There was a pause. 

“Mycroft, son, I need to ask you something.”

“What? What’s the matter?” His father sounded strained. 

“You’ll have heard the Herald’s recent publication of...sensitive information?”

“Yes, father. Have you found the source?”

“I...I have to ask, Mycroft, you haven’t been approached by anyone, have you?”

“Approached? What do you mean?”

“Has anyone asked you for...details? Concerning the Palace?”

“What? No, of course not, besides, you know I would never… Why? Why on earth would you think I…?”

“Mycroft, I’m sorry, son, but the information the Herald printed was information I shared with you only last month and to my knowledge, I never told anybody else…”

“Who else knew? At the Palace?”

“Only a very few, and I am sorry but their veracity is not in question.”

“Oh…”

“Look, son, if you tell me you said nothing, then I believe you, but we have to be certain.”

“Honestly, father, I have never said anything to anybody.”

“Good enough for me.”

 _Except Byron,_ the unbidden thought came to mind. In love, and happy, Mycroft dismissed the thought as unworthy. 

Mycroft was careful not to repeat anything his father said thereafter, but on their next visit, Mycroft was conscious of Byron’s accepted presence in his parents’ sitting room, listening and laughing as Father regaled them with yet another recent story from his work. Nothing too revealing, mind, his father wasn’t that incautious, but it was still told in confidence. 

Yet in the weeks that followed, that particular story did not reach the headlines.

The clincher was a rather revealing expose on one of the younger royals. Mycroft knew nothing about that particular story, and knew his father had not shared it either. However, it threw their father’s reputation into doubt. Mycroft found himself being stared at when at work, and did not mistake the muttering going on behind his back. Everybody knew who his father was…

Sherlock was sulking again, it seemed. Of course it did not take long for Sherlock to openly accuse Byron of only being interested in Mycroft because of their father’s position. Mycroft had definitely had enough. 

“That’s enough, Sherlock. You have no idea what you’re talking about. You are simply embarrassing yourself, not to mention me and our parents…”

“Shut up, Fatcroft! Just because you’re so besotted you can’t see what’s in front of your face.”

“I refuse to listen to any more of this. I am happy, Sherlock. Happy. Byron and I are buying a property together and we are partners. Stop trying to ruin everything for me.”

“So what happened?” Greg asked as Sherlock stopped and cocked his head slightly as if listening. “That can’t have been the end of it.”

“Oh, it wasn’t. Next thing we knew, Mycroft was...very upset and angry. Byron had left him. Well, moved out, taken everything with him and left a note that explained of an opportunity in America that had opened up. Of course he felt betrayed. Well, he was betrayed, obviously. What Mycroft never knew was that I was the one who betrayed him. He blamed me, of course, but for the wrong reasons.”

“You?”

“Yes. I found out that good old, romantic, loving Byron was the half-nephew of the Editor-in-Chief of the London Herald.”

“The tabloid that leaked the stuff about the Palace those years ago?”

“The same. He was feeding information to his uncle all the while he was with my brother. I presented my findings to father, and we agreed not to tell Mycroft. The damage was done though. Byron’s uncle was mysteriously fired from his position by the board of directors for the Herald Group of papers. Some people think he was paid off but I know differently.” 

“Care to share then?”

“He was threatened with taking the fall in a massive lawsuit, and told to vanish before it splashed all over the news. The board told him they would ruin him if he didn’t just resign and move abroad. Byron disappeared into one of the USA’s vast litigation firms somewhere in California and rumour has it, his uncle went out there as well.”

“Earning vast amounts of money? Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Wherever they are, they’re off the radar, no concern of anyones. Mycroft...my brother took the break up very hard. He gave up his career in politics and went back to university to study history.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Father leaned on him a little, suggested it might not be the best career for someone of Mycroft’s sensibilities. He persuaded Mycroft’s bosses to suggest the same. My brother has a phenomenal mind for organisation and a deep love of history, but politics would eventually have chewed him up and spat him out as a used up husk before his thirtieth birthday.”

“Why not tell him the truth then?”

“The opportunity never arose. Why not just let him believe he had been betrayed? My brother was carrying enough guilt without loading the fact that he had chosen someone who could have proved very dangerous had their liaison continued.”

“And I bet you were a dick to him, weren’t you?”

“I am not proud of the fact that I was...a little vindictive. My brother has a very big heart, Greg, and that makes him vulnerable. He forgave me after a while, even though we come into conflict often and more than we should. I do try to look out for him, but sometimes not in the right way. I have scared off more than one potential partner, but I do wonder how much good they were if I could manage to do so.”

“That depends on how you did it, Sunshine. However, ex-copper, me. Made of sterner stuff. I meant what I said though. If you keep doing it, you’ll lose him. Once and for all.”

“Do I need to?” Sherlock smiled and drained his mug. “I think you aren’t going anywhere.”

“Yeah, but it’s got a lot to do with him, though, don’t you think? Listen, mate. If this doesn’t work out between us—and you have to leave things to run their proper course, in future, remember—just don’t do it again. Okay?” 

“I shall of course take your suggestion under advisement.”

“Course you will, you tosser. Little brothers never learn.”

“Neither do big brothers, it seems.” Sherlock reached to shake his hand. “I do appreciate your care of him, you know.”

“Yeah, well, big step for me too. However, it’s worth it. He’s worth it.”

“Yes, he is.” 

Greg saw Sherlock to the door. “How’d you get here?”

“I borrowed a car…”

“Please tell me, you did not nick a car to come here.”

“Of course not. Mr Chattergee in the shop below my flat allowed me to use it. I cited family emergency, but I wasn’t really lying. It’s a little...ostentatious, but it does the job.” He cast eyes across to a large silver merc parked by the kerb. 

“You any further forward with the robbery then?”

“No. However, Milverton is elusive. I am going to consult with the Baker Street Irregulars when I return.”

“Who the hell are they?”

“My informants. London’s homeless. Surprisingly observant, and mostly unobserved. I have them working surveillance at present. Any moves and I shall know first.”

“Well then, good luck with that. Hopefully we’re seeing someone from the Flying Squad this week.”

“What interest do the Sweeny have?”

“No idea yet. Waiting for Ron Barker to get in touch.” There seemed little left to say, so the two men shook hands. “Take care, Sherlock,” Greg offered.

“Give my best to my brother.”

Greg watched him go, then turned to the living room door. “You can come out now.”

“I won’t ask how you knew.” Mycroft emerged from the room. 

“I’m an ex-copper, you daft git. Not much gets past me. How long though?”

“You don’t know? I thought you said not much gets past you?”

“Well, I’d have to guess from the beginning. I thought I saw a flicker in the sunlight in the hall after we went into the kitchen. Dismissed it until I saw Sherlock cock his head to listen. Then I guessed he’d heard something.”

“I heard most of it.”

“Was it news to you?”

“About the truth of who Byron was, yes. I never knew that part. I know more than Sherlock thinks though. I know father decided I shouldn’t head into politics as a career. He and I had a very lengthy talk on the matter. After Byron… let’s just say I was...very unhappy.”

“I can appreciate that one. Feels like your world has been ripped to shreds, yeah?”

“Yes. Like I was worthless in every sense. It took me years to find my equilibrium again. Now...I suppose he saved father as well as myself. There was more than just my injured pride at stake.”

“Don’t start feeling guilty, or angry at them for not telling you. Water under the bridge, Myc. Sounds like that Byron bloke was a bastard. I am so sorry you experienced that.”

“Yes, well, life’s rich tapestry and all that.” Mycroft sighed. “One lives and learns, doesn’t one?”

“Yes, one does. Now, come and get some coffee and let’s talk some more.”

“Talk? What about?”

“Us, Myc. About us.”


	15. Taking The Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some revelations...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally I am back to this... After the Advent Calendar and the Mystrade Valentine... and real life...After flu, festivals and a lot of fuss...

In the end, Mycroft and Greg finally rolled out of bed in time for a late lunch and then went for a long walk. Greg’s hand stole down Mycroft’s arm as they walked, lacing their fingers together. As they walked, they talked; they discussed cultural appropriation, favourite authors, bees, medieval recipes involving honey, Chopin piano concertos, musical theatre. Conversation was easy, interesting, challenging too, and Greg loved it all. They also tried to express their feelings, although neither man seemed able to completely put into words his hopes for the future. Mycroft tried his best, but he was unfamiliar with trying to put his feelings into words. They did seem to arrive at a mutually satisfying conclusion that neither envisioned himself ending up as a lonely (and quite possibly grumpy) old man. They agreed that they would both rather spend the rest of their days in mutual good company. If that good company was Mycroft, Greg knew he would be more than happy. 

They went home in time for an early dinner which Mycroft insisted he cook, and then Greg departed for home. They both had work the following day, Mycroft had a very packed schedule in the run up to the new exhibition, and they both needed to accomplish all the domestic stuff that had been sidelined by the weekend’s events. Greg had to sort his clothes for the week, and possibly put his washer on, as well as check his briefcase and make sure his lesson plans were organised.

Home, however, was empty. It was far too quiet. Greg went about doing his laundry, and laying his suit out ready for the morrow, but he realised he had forgotten to finish his lesson plans and was then up until after eleven completing them all, the whir of his washer a background counterpoint to his scribbling notes and tapping keys. He could print it all tomorrow off the school printer, so simply finishing the content was all he had to do. Even so, it took him a while. A text arrived as he was deep into typing it all out on his laptop. 

_**I Hope I don’t wake you, Gregory, just wanted to thank you for today. MH** _

Greg smiled and texted back quickly. **Thank you too. You didn’t wake me, I’m still up.**

**_Should you not be resting? You have school tomorrow. MH_ **

**Forgot my damned lesson plans. Got to have them done for tomorrow.**

_**Ah, sorry for that.** **I hope you manage to complete your work before too long. You need your sleep. Goodnight, Gregory. All my love. MH**_

_All my love?_ Greg smiled, suddenly happy beyond words. **All mine too, GH,** he wrote.

He fell asleep about midnight, and woke up at six with his alarm, feeling groggy and tired but still happy. When he got to work that morning though, the school was quiet, and he realised he was the first in for once. He made tracks to the staffroom and made himself coffee, then retreated to his classroom and managed to get things sorted for the day ahead. He printed off his lesson plans and filed them in his work folder, just as Mary called a greeting as she passed the door. She poked her head in to ask about his weekend, and they shared a few words before the day began. Rhiannon arrived in a rush, apologising for getting stuck in traffic. Then the children started to arrive and before long the day was in full swing, and all thoughts of Mycroft and the museum went to the back of his mind. 

The days blended into one another, the week rushing by. For Mycroft it meant consultations on the IT components of the exhibition with Jim and Seb, closely followed by a discussion with Terry concerning changes in the placement of the exhibition cases. Technical had realised the floor wasn’t level in certain places which meant either modifications to the cases or repositioning them through the room. They arrived at a compromise, modifying some, moving others. Mycroft also insisted on a complete review of all the security arrangements until the Head of his Museum Attendants was sick of talking about it. 

“Seriously, Mr Holmes, we are doing everything we’ve been asked to do. There is nothing more we can do,” he tried to reassure. 

“The local police have been informed?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve consulted with them, personally. They have been here and advised on the most effective methods of deterring thieves and we are doing all of it. CCTV has been upgraded, and Mr Moran has made sure everything is working properly. The museum we are borrowing from is quite happy with our arrangements. We meet their standards or we’d never have got permission to loan in the first place...as I am sure you’re aware, sir.” 

Mycroft sighed, tried to rein in his racing thoughts and thanked the man, finally allowing him to leave. He picked up the phone and called his brother.

“Mycroft, you know I prefer to text.” Sherlock’s reply was acerbic.

“Any news?”

“Good God, this is really getting to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. I believe you when you say it is going to happen, so tell me, what do we do?”

“I am afraid there is nothing new yet. Nobody is moving. It’s quite annoying.”

“My condolences that the criminals are not cooperating.”

Mycroft just about heard the eye roll down the phone line. “When I have anything worthwhile, I will be in touch. Security measures have been improved, I take it?”

“As...far as possible, yes.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then, shall I?”

“We can do nothing more. We are doing more than the museum requires to lend this material to us, so we technically should not worry. Should anything happen to the...objects, the insurance will cover us.”

“But your reputation would still suffer.”

“Sherlock, I don’t care about my bloody reputation. I care about the...objects, falling into the wrong hands, possibly being damaged in the process, and being removed from circulation. They should be shared, enjoyed, respected even, used to educate, not adorning some billionaire’s wall for their sole pleasure, having been stolen to order.”

On Wednesday, Greg stayed late, doing his best to catch up with everything before heading home. He had some art materials to order, some of the kids’ pictures to mount, and templates to make for some masks the children were going to make for a play they were writing. It would be part of the end of term fete for the school’s hundredth anniversary. 

“Alright, Mr Lestrade?” He looked up to see Sid, the caretaker, peeking in the door. 

“As right as can be, Sid. What’s up?”

“Nearly half past, Mr Lestrade. Can I ask when you’re plannin’ on headin’ ‘ome?”

“Half past? Jesus, so it is. Sorry, Sid. Didn’t mean to stop you locking up.”

“No, no, not a worry. Just wonderin’. Herself is still here too, and there’s no chuckin’ ‘er out.” He gave a lopsided grin, showing gap teeth. 

“I should be done in a half hour, Sid. Don’t want to spend all my life here.”

Sid chuckled. “Me neither. Don’t work too hard, son.”

“Nah, no fear of that. Need to get gone soon anyway. Don’t want to run into the boss…”

“I’ll clear up here, you know. You just get yourself ‘ome.” 

“Thanks, Sid. I won’t be long.”

The caretaker ambled off, keys jingling. Greg sighed. He was up to his eyes in cutting shapes out of card and he was only half done. He was just finishing the mask shapes and was clearing up the bits of dropped card when he heard voices in the corridor. One was unmistakably Irene’s, the other...familiar but he couldn’t place it. “...shouldn’t visit here. I have told you before.” 

_Damn it,_ Greg thought. _I have no wish to get caught by that woman right now._ He left everything on the table and moved across to the corner of the room that was away from the door. Anyone passing would not automatically see him there.

“I apologise but this is important, Ms Free…”

“DO NOT call me that!” _Well, that sounded angry._ Greg wondered who the man was to have caused her such irritation. “You never use that name. Not here, not anywhere. Understand me?” There was a pause and then “Stop fucking snivelling and follow me now. I don’t need you to be seen.” The voices were clear through his open door. They must be close. _Damn, the door is open..._

“But Ms Adler, there have been developments. Milverton wants to bring things forward…”

“Forward? What on earth for?”

“He has a plan he thinks you should listen to. It may make things easier for us.”

Greg heard a very put upon and irritated sigh. “I suppose I should hear him out. I’ll text him. What else?” 

“You may find this less palatable, Ms Adler.” There was a pause. “Holmes knows.”

The footsteps stopped. Greg resisted the urge to move as he might be seen… Very quietly, he dropped to all fours and crept under one of the tables, fairly sure he was out of the direct line of sight should anyone peer in. It was cramped but bearable. 

“Holmes doesn’t know. Nobody knows.” Irene dismissed the notion.

“He does, I can assure you. I am in touch with...an associate of his. Someone who has his ear.”

“Someone he pays, you mean?”

“One of his informants. I pay her more.”

 _Informants? Mycroft had informants? Wait, what?_ Greg frowned in confusion. _Hang on, maybe they were referring to Sherlock, not Mycroft. What does he call them? The Baker Street Boys...no, Irregulars. Baker Street Irregulars._ At that moment, no doubt encouraged by the wind through the window he had left open, some of the papers on his desk tipped onto the floor, taking a pair of scissors with them. Greg froze.

“Shh!” He heard the imperious command and then steps approached and the door squeaked as it was eased further open. He did not see her looking into the room but stayed where he was, breathing as softly as possible, willing his heart rate to quieten. He knew he needed to get out of there fast. He could see her feet, and beyond, the feet of the man with her. Brogues, scuffed brown ones, with grey tweed trousers, old fashioned turn ups along the hem. He saw her feet move away and resisted the urge to sigh in relief. “I heard something,” she explained. “I thought there may have been someone in the room. Seems I was mistaken. Someone left a window open, it blew some papers onto the floor. Now, you were saying…?” 

“I pay her more than he does,” the man said. “She told me that Holmes’ brother has a….” The voices drew further away, but Greg did not emerge until the footsteps had died away completely and he could no longer hear the voices. 

He scrambled out of hiding, and made for the desk, then paused. No, no cleaning. He hadn’t quite finished. If he tidied and she had occasion to glance in here again, well, she would know he had either been there or been around. Leaving it like this, he could always say he had left without finishing up, responding to a family emergency… _or something_. He grabbed his briefcase from behind the desk, she wouldn’t have been able to see it from the door, and grabbed his coat from behind the door, leaving the opposite way from the direction they had gone in. The car park was in front of the school, and Adler’s office was at the rear. With luck, he’d get away without being seen...

“Greg, hold up!”

“Shit!” He nearly had a heart attack as mary caught him up from the other direction. 

“What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Shut up. Do you need a lift?”

“Yeah, sure…”

“Just shut it until we get out of here, okay?”

“You’re avoiding her, aren’t you?”

“Too bloody right. If she sees me tonight, I am toast.”

“What did you do?” she asked as they got in the car and Greg started the engine. He drove out the drive and away, turning left up the road. “Thought you lived the other way?”

“I do. Scenic route.”

“Greg, we’re out of there. Slow down, and calm down. Now what the fuck is wrong?”

“You are not going to believe this.”

Over drinks at a pub on the edge of the ridge of hills looking over the town, somewhere Irene would likely not be caught in a million years, he told her. I all came spilling out, like water from a burst dam; the potential heist, the person with Irene, Milverton… 

“It’s a mess,” he finished, downing the remains of his pint. “Nobody has the first idea what to do.”

“Greg,” she said, looking at him strangely. 

“What?”

“Things are about to get weirder.” 

“Oh? How on earth might they do that?”

“Here.” Mary reached into her inside pocket of her jacket and produced a familiar wallet. 

“Bloody. Fucking. Hell. No.” _Mary Rosamund Morstan,_ he read. _Detective Sergeant._ Across the top was printed _Metropolitan Police_. “Since when?”

“1998,” she grinned. “I’m risking a huge amount even telling you, never mind the risk I am going to take by bringing you into this. You’re an ex-copper, though, and I can see this going pear-shaped if you are kept in the dark. If my superiors knew…”

“You’d be for the bloody high jump,” he said, raising his glass. 

“Yeah, most likely.”

“So...what the fuck is going on?”

“What you’ve told me is pretty much what we know already. We know Adler, AKA Sylvia Freeborn, AKA Katherine Harrington. She was a madam for a high class Brothel ten years ago, involved in blackmailing a member of the Royals, but it was all swept under the carpet, and Freeborn disappeared. Now she’s popped up again and she’s calling herself Irene Adler. She’s a fraudster, a blackmailer and she’s been associated with the Mafia, among other things, whom we suspect were responsible for giving her a new identity after the last fiasco. Her partner…”

“Milverton?”

“Yeah, he’s a slippery one, too. We knew all about his fraudulent goings on but he got away too. Well, this time we are going to nail them, but not unless you can keep our nose out of it all and let me do my job.” 

“So you’re, what, fraud squad? Flying Squad?” 

“The Sweeny? No, love,” she grinned. “Not exactly Fraud either. Counter Terrorism, actually. This is a joint operation and it’s taken a huge amount of time to put together.”

“Since when did Counter Terrorism become interested in fraud and art crime?”

“Antiquities crime. Not art. The Sherrinford is playing host to a valuable piece of historical work, the Abottsfield Venus. It’s only small, but it’s gold, it’s Roman, it’s very valuable, like $5million valuable, and it’s being stolen to order, we think.”

“Hang on, you haven’t said why on earth CTC is interested in _antiquities_ crime.”

“When it raises money to fund terrorism, it is. Milverton isn’t his real name. It’s Rostov, Alexei Rostov, and he’s been a thorn in our side a bit too long…”

“This is bollocks, Mary…”

She nodded. “I know it sounds wild, and I know, I am supposed to be undercover. You are about to blow that wide open, Greg, both with what you know and who you know. When Sherlock Holmes gets his nose into a case, then everybody best look out. He drives Dimmock wild sometimes. This could impair any success we might have. Look, I don’t want to fight you over this, but I am not about to let this go.”

“So you want me to keep quiet.”

“So I can make sure this investigation runs to its close. I want her arrested, and charged with something that will stick. There are people other than us interested in her so our case with CPS needs to be fucking watertight. Christ, I really am taking a massive risk bringing you in on this, but I don’t want you hurt.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Greg…”

“I know, I know, it’s just...frustrating. I need to do something.”

“Look, we know about the planned robbery. Adler and Milverton are planning to lift the Venus when it arrives, but they have people they’ve recruited to carry it out. We want Adler and Milverton too, and for that to happen...." She shrugged. "Look, you understand this kind of thing, you know how much work goes into it, how long it takes, and I’m pretty sure you’re not going to ruin it. You’re an ex-copper, Greg…”

Greg sighed. “I know. I know. I’m not going to ruin it for you. You need to catch them at it, and then you’ll offer them a deal to dob Adler and Milverton in?” 

“They’re tools, Greg. They’ll talk. As long as they think they're facing anti-terror charges rather than simply art theft, and you keep going as though everything was normal, we can see this to it’s close. Oh, and don't tell Holmes."

"Which one?"

"Both of them. You cannot let them in on this. I've already risked a lot by letting you in. I dunno, try to deflect Sherlock and just tell his brother your contacts at the Met have told you to drop it, and we'll have to carry on from here. We don’t let her, or anyone else for that matter, suspect anything. I hope you’re up to the task.”

“So do I.”

**00000000000000**

“Did he believe you?”

“Yes, Ms Adler.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, he’s taken the bait, Ms Adler. Hook, line and sinker. I convinced him to back off.”

“And you trust him?”

“Not in the least, but I understand people like him. He’ll obey the rules if he thinks its the right thing to do, and he does.” 


	16. Pretending Everything is Fine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is not sure about Mary...

“What do you mean, they’ve told you to drop it?”

“That’s what they said,” Greg told Mycroft on the phone that evening. “They said to drop it, and hinted that there’s something going on, most probably an operation of some kind. Just...I don’t know any more. That’s all they said.”

“Good God, Greg, the Ve...the _object_ , arrives next week…”

“Yes, I know, but...what else could I do?” Greg hated this. He hated effectively lying to Mycroft, but he had no idea what else to do. He knew the value of silence and cooperation on these cases, because otherwise something would go wrong and the criminals would get off on a technicality. It had happened to him a few times; arrest the thieves, build a watertight case, and then the bastards would hire good lawyers who would find a loophole and bang went months of work until catching them red-handed was the only way they couldn’t wriggle out of it. He sighed. “Look, we’ll have to trust that the police know what they’re doing?”

“I don’t know, Greg. I mean, if they were concerned, would they not be approaching me, as museum Director? I mean, it is technically my responsibility, my exhibition...If they suspected a major theft...well, why am I not being consulted? Why is the British Museum not being consulted?”

“Maybe they have been, and possibly you will too, there’s best part of a fortnight to go. If not, it’s because of the sensitive nature of the operation. Look, it was hinted that they’re not after the thieves, they’re after their bosses, ie: Alder and Milverton. They cannot do that unless they manage to get the thieves to confess. Believe me, it’s difficult enough in the first place to catch the ones who plan the damn crimes.”

“I am not convinced.”

“Didn’t think you would be. Look, leave it until the end of this week, then I’ll have a word with a colleague and check it out. How would that be?”

Mycroft sighed. “Very well, but…”

“But?”

“I fear Sherlock will be harder to convince.”

 _Sherlock…_ Greg paused. _What did that man say to Adler? One of Sherlock’s informants was being paid more by him? Oh, God. Now what do I do? Tell him? Will that blow everything?_ He took a breath. “Look, just tell him…” _What?_ “Tell him what I told you, that my police contacts have suggested we back off.”

“I shall try but I am not wholly convinced he will listen.” 

“Then just tell him if he blows this, he’ll probably never find work with the Met again.”

**0000000000**

“Okay, Stephen, stop that right now!” Greg snapped. Stephen looked unmoved and pouted, dramatically, having been caught pulling Jessica’s plaits. Greg tried not to laugh but Stephen reminded him so strongly of Sherlock it was hard to keep a straight face. “Please do not do that to Jess. Sit down here, now, so I can keep an eye on you. Now, everybody, give me some doing words...Yes, Sally.”

“Walking,” she said primly. 

“Good. Yes, Daniel?”

“Running.”

“Right. Harry.”

“Fishing.”

“Nice one. Maria?”

“Dressing?”

“Yes. well done.”

“Farting,” Josh said. The entire class shrieked with laughter. Greg rolled his eyes. _This is my life,_ he thought momentarily, making a valiant attempt not to laugh again. He allowed himself a small smile. That lad’s timing was perfect. 

“You’re not wrong, Josh, but put your hand up to answer. Now, any more?” He pointed to David who was waving his hand around to be noticed. “Alright, David, I can see you perfectly well, I don’t need semaphore.”

“What’s semaphore, sir?”

“Signalling with flags. Just put your hand in the air, there’s no need to wave it about as if you were drowning. So, what’s your suggestion?”

“Snoring, sir?”

“Yes, that’s good. Okay then, doing words are known as verbs. Verbs describe doing or being…” Greg went to the white board and wrote a few more words, carrying on with his lesson, trying not to get distracted with thoughts about the impending robbery and everything Mary had confided in him. 

Somehow he made it through the day but he avoided Mary as much as possible. He shunned the staffroom for the next few days until James came to see what was happening. He leaned in at the door as Greg was sitting going through his reports. 

“Greg? You alright, my man?” Greg looked up, seeing James standing there holding two mugs that steamed. “Brought you coffee. Why are you avoiding us?”

“I’m not.”

“Like Hell.”

Greg sighed, standing up and unkinking his spine. He fixed James with a look and shook his head. “Where’s Mary?”

“Not around. Why?”

“Just...it’s complicated.”

“Christ, you’re not having an affair, are you? She’s married.”

“Fuck no…” Greg muttered, voice low. “Look…” Greg went to the door and looked out, then shut the classroom door on them both. He took the mug Sholto offered and sat down again. He was silent for a moment as he wondered about trusting James. The man had always been friendly, helpful and supportive. “It’s nothing, honestly.”

“Come on, Greg. This is me, remember?” 

“I’m not allowed to say.”

“Not allowed? What the Fuck, Greg?”

“Look, there’s something going on, and I can’t say anything. Police matter.”

“Police? How?”

“It’s to do with the museum…”

“Okay. Need to know, hm?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Very well then, I can appreciate that, but what has it got to do with Mary?”

“Um...can’t say, sorry. Maybe nothing.”

“You’re talking riddles.” 

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. This is...big, James. I can’t jeopardise the operation.”

“Operation? Christ. You back on the force then?”

“No, just...managed to get caught up in something, that’s all.” 

“Which somehow involves the delightful Ms Morstan.”

“James…Don’t say anything to her, okay?”

“Alright, I’m not stupid. I was a soldier. I can appreciate when I need to keep my nose out of it, but take care, Greg. I am here if you need help.”

“I know, James, and thanks. I just...keeping myself out of it for now. Just...letting things go as I’ve been told to.” The bell rang for afternoon lessons. “Thanks for the coffee.” James stood up and smiled, giving him a wave as he walked out the door. Greg sighed and let his shoulders slump. Defeated, he turned to face his pupils’ return, watching them tumble over and around each other as they jostled to get to their seats. 

Greg went about the rest of his week in a daze, until Friday, wondering more than once exactly he was going to do about all this mess. He was gathering his things in preparation for going home when, through his window, he spotted his boss talking to someone. As she moved aside, he could see that the person she was talking to was Mary. He watched as the two women walked across the yard. As they did so, they both glanced toward his room, then looked away, continuing to talk as they walked toward the building. Greg felt fairly sure that they were too far away to see he was looking back at them, the angle of the windows and the reflected light enough to obscure him, but the gesture struck him as off, as though they were talking about him. He stuffed the last few papers into his briefcase, told himself not to be paranoid, and finally went home. 

Later that evening his phone buzzed with a text. Glancing at it, he could see it was from Mycroft. Guilt flooded through him, and he put the phone back down, unable to formulate a reply to the man. _What can I say?_ Perplexed, Greg picked up the phone again and looked at the text.

_**Was hoping I could see you this weekend, MH** _

Greg sighed. He wanted to see Mycroft. They had something good brewing, and it was not something he wanted to let slide. However, he felt bad about what was happening and it robbed him of what to do or say. He picked up the phone and sent off a quick text, apologising but citing his heavy workload. He hoped Mycroft would understand. 

**Sorry to rain on your parade, but I’ve got too much paperwork this weekend. Can we organise for later in the week? GL**

It didn’t take long before a reply buzzed. 

_**Sorry to hear you are snowed under. Take care not to work too hard. Busy this week because of exhibition. Will be in touch. MH** _

_Bloody buggering Hell,_ Greg thought. That sounded like a brush off. To be expected, however. He sighed, frustrated. The weekend loomed before him and for the first time in a long while, Greg found that he wasn’t looking forward to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have just edited the ending of this chapter. It was not working for me so I have revised my story construction. Works better this way. Hope a chapter update will happen soon.


	17. Signs and Tangents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finds himself in a difficult situation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hoping this hangs together. I have no idea now. If anyone wants to beta read the whole thing for me, please let me know...

“What do you mean, back off?” 

“Exactly that, Sherlock. There is some kind of police operation going on and Greg has been ordered to back down, and thus so have we. How can I put it more plainly?”

“Rubbish, Mycroft. There is no police operation.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Dimmock says there isn’t.”

“Dimmock may not know. It might be a different department…He might be lying.”

“I concede that it is possible he does not know, but word gets around. Besides, he tells me he has enquired, on the grounds that there may be a possible conflict of interest. He tells me there is no police involvement in anything to do with The Sherrinford. He was not dissembling, either. I can tell if that man is lying. He is terrible at it. Besides, something is going on, even if Scotland Yard are oblivious to it. One of my informants is on the take…”

“On the take? From whom?”

“I suspected she was getting money from someone other than me when I noticed her clothing.”

“Clothing?”

“Yes, clothing. She started wearing brands. A few new specifically-branded items that would normally be way out of her league.”

“Shoplifting, Sherlock? I imagine it is not out of the ordinary for your...contacts.”

“Firstly, my contacts are not criminals…”

“Pft.” Mycroft was dismissive. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I would ask you not to be so...judgemental. Yes, some of my people have a past. That’s why I try to employ them, to keep them off the streets. However, this one has always been an outlier, never mixes with the others. The rest have formed a family of sorts, they call themselves the Baker Street Irregulars. Their name, not mine. They look after each other, they work for me, I pay them, they split the money and help support each other. So far, they have remained on the right side of the law, and it stays that way or I refuse to keep employing them. She is, however, not a part of that. By her own choice, she stays away. I always end up paying her separately, assuming she does what I want correctly. Recently, she has rather alarmingly upgraded her clothing. So I’ve had one of the others watching her. She doesn’t shoplift, she is buying her clothes, with a rather alarming amount of cash. I had someone tail her and report to me who she was meeting and when. Not long after I would meet to garner information from her, she would meet up with another man who paid her what appeared to be large amounts of cash in an envelope. So I set her up.”

“How?”

“I asked her to get me some information, nothing hard, just some surveillance on someone, and I paid her. Then I changed my appearance and tailed her. Saw her meeting a man, who passed her an envelope. It was full of cash, she opened it to check and I could see the notes. All twenties. Enough for a couple of hundred. The first time I was too far away to hear what they said. The following meeting I had a disguise that got me close enough to hear. She was giving him information on me, Mycroft. She was asking me questions when we met, and I answered with things I felt were true enough but innocuous enough not to be too revealing or damaging. Sure enough, she was relaying those answers. He’s a small man in tweeds, balding, in his forties…I think he has some connection to the university. I tailed him back there. He is recognised by the porter on the main gate and he seems to be living in halls, so they know him, he is obviously well established there.”

“Tweeds, did you say?” Mycroft frowned. “How tall was he?”

“About five six, looks quite old fashioned. His trousers have turn-ups, for God’s sake.”

“Turn-ups...Sherlock, I know who he is. His name is Culverton Smith…”

“Culverton Smith?” Mycroft heard furious tapping as Sherlock accessed his computer.

“He’s a professor of archaeology at the university,” Mycroft said. “He asked to access our collections for his PhD but I am reliably informed he is unlikely to be completing it. He apparently comes every year, applies for any job the museum has going, but never gets anywhere. Apparently my predecessor refused to entertain the notion of employing him. He is rather camp, but innocuous enough. Mrs Hudson told me all about him. He always says he is studying for his PhD but it never happens. It all sounded rather pathetic.”

“Mycroft, how much access does he have to the museum?”

“Access? Well, as much as any volunteer, really. He has the access code to the staff area door, he can use the kitchen and the staffroom and our library. Beyond that, he has to sign in and out, but he pretty much can come and go as he pleases.”

“So he can talk to people, he can see how you work behind the scenes…”

“Yes, I dare say.”

“Then I think,” Sherlock said smugly, “we might have your mole.” 

**0000000000000**

_Oh, God, what the Hell was I drinking last night…_ Greg opened bleary eyes onto an unfamiliar room. _Christ, did I go home with someone…?_ Try as he might, he could not remember. Looking around him, he could see that the curtains were drawn, but there was daylight filtering through. Otherwise the room was almost empty. Apart from the bed he was lying on, there was no other furniture. The door was closed and he could hear no other sounds… _What the fuck?_ Greg tried to clear the fuzz in his head. He had a fierce headache, which made concentration difficult, but his police training was kicking back in… _Wrong, wrong, wrong…_ He tried to sit up but his wrist caught on something. Looking down, he found he wasn’t on a bed, he was lying on a mattress, handcuffed to the base of a radiator that was sitting against the wall. 

**000000000000000**

Saturday morning had arrived in sullen mood, and neither Greg nor the weather seemed to be feeling very chipper. Grey clouds hung over his part of the world and threatened rain. After a brief trip to the bathroom, Greg decided to go back to bed. The weather conditions had made themselves known with a hefty gust of rain-laden air through the half-open bathroom window and Greg gave it up as a bad job. He went back to bed armed with a tray laid with hot cocoa, the morning paper, and toast. He planned on a little more sleep before facing a day filled with completing pupil assessments, marking work, and mounting pictures for the classroom wall…Greg had found himself smiling. Instead of being called out at godforsaken times for investigations and leg work, house-to-house, interviews, arrests, he was giving up his weekend for what amounted to deskwork. It was almost a luxury, although part of him still resented giving up even a small portion of his weekend. He knew he was avoiding working at school though, minimising his chances of crossing paths with Irene. That was bad, really… 

Greg’s phone rang as he was working his way through the toast. Noting it was a restricted number registering on the end, he reluctantly answered it, not wanting to get dragged into a call from someone selling something.

“Lestrade?” he said cautiously. 

“Former DS Greg Lestrade?” the cheerful male voice replied. “It’s Ron Barker, DI, Fraud Squad. Dave asked me to call you. Dave Bradstreet?”

“Oh, right, yeah. Thanks for calling.”

“He said you’d been talking about the threat of a theft from a museum?”

“Yeah, we had a tip off…” Greg went on to outline the information Sherlock had come to them with, but kept it simple. “Thing is, though, I’ve already been approached by someone else from the Met, and they tactfully suggested I back off, that there’s another operation already going ahead…”

“Really? Dave suggested this was about someone called Milverton? Charles Milverton?”

“Yes, that’s him. Look, Ron, I don’t want to be rude but...if this is someone else’s collar…”

Ron chuckled. “Yeah, I know, but Dave told me it was concerning theft from a museum, which is antiquities or art theft. I took the liberty of enquiring about it from the horse’s mouth, as it were, but the Art Theft Squad came up blank. Nobody’s heard anything.”

“What, nothing at all?”

“Nope. Nothing. The most they know is Milverton is on their books as a person of interest, like he is on ours, because he got nicked a while back for being part of a fraud ring. I remember him, cool as a cucumber, grassed up the rest of the gang in exchange for immunity without a qualm.” That confirmed the facts Mrs Hudson had supplied him with. “One step out of line,” Ron added, “and we’d be ready to nick him all over again. However, at the moment, he’s clean. Runs a gallery in Soho and it’s absolutely above board. Art Theft also know that The Sherrinford museum is receiving a small gold figurine known as the Abbotsfield Venus next week, in preparation for it’s display in a new exhibition concerning the Roman history in your neck of the woods. It’s an important piece apparently, quite rare, but the British Museum is happy with the security arrangements and it’s not excessively valuable...”

“That’s not what I was told. Is five mil not valuable?” 

“How much? Who told you that?” Barker snorted a laugh down the phone. “Rare that Art Theft don’t know what they’re talking about and according to them it’s only worth around 300k. It’s enough, but not that valuable in the grand scheme of things. Not when you realise they can be dealing with thefts and fraud in terms of millions, not thousands. Look, forgive my asking but exactly who told you about this, Greg? Who is this police contact of yours? The one told you about the op?”

It was Greg’s turn to pause. He would be getting Mary into a world of trouble if he told them her name. Bringing in a civilian, even an ex-copper, into an operation like this would earn her a reprimand at the very least. “Look, Ron, I’m not certain I should say. I could be getting...this person into deep shit for telling me…”

“Yeah, well, maybe deep shit is deserved. Officers are not allowed to talk about ongoing investigations with anyone not directly involved, unless it directly concerns enquiries, as you well know. Are you sure this person is legit?” 

“Showed me a warrant card I would swear was real. Look, could we meet?” Greg asked. “I’d rather not do this over the phone…”

“When can you get here?”

“This evening? I can get a train up, get there for about sixish. Would it be okay if I bring Mycroft Holmes with me? He’s the museum director. It concerns him directly anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Can you make it after six though? Got a late meeting.”

“NSY at 6.30 then?”

“Okay, sure. I should have something by then. I should know whether there’s an operation going down, even if I can’t tell you the details. See you then.”

Greg phoned Mycroft as soon as the call to Ron Barker ended only to have the call go almost straight to voicemail. “Mycroft, it’s Greg. Got a call from Ron Barker at the Met. Intending to go see him this evening. If you’re free I’d appreciate you coming along. Got questions need answering. Call me back, please?” 

After he terminated the call, Greg checked the time. It was nearly lunchtime. As he had some shopping to do, and lunch to find, Greg decided to go to the store and grab a quick lunch out at the pub. He quickly dialed James Sholto and grabbed his coat as he waited for the call to connect. 

“Terribly sorry, but I really can’t reach the phone right now to answer your no doubt very important call. Leave your name and contact details and I give you my word that I will endeavour to get back to you as soon as time allows. Toodle pip.” 

“Not you as well,” Greg muttered, staring at the phone with a disbelieving frown. The beep sounded and he hurriedly left a message before it could switch off. 

“James, it’s Greg. Look, can you remember when Mary started work for the school? Only the Met have been in touch and something feels off. Gimme a call when you get this, yeah? Need a couple of questions answered. Thanks.” Pocketting his phone, Greg headed for the door. He was getting ready to leave when someone knocked. Frowning, he peered through the peephole to see Mary standing there. _What the hell…?_ He fumbled the latch and opened the door.

**0000000000000**

Greg was not sure how much time passed before his head finally began to clear. There was no way he could free himself, despite trying to flex his wrist. He knew cuffs were supposed to be difficult to get out of, and these were no different. He dozed off, too tired to think, and when he woke again the light had begun to fade. There was still no sound from the house around him. He tried to think back, to remember what had happened. Things were still hazy, and Greg knew he was drugged, not pissed. This was definitely not as a result of drinking too much… _Mary_ , he thought. _Mary called by… Jesus…_ They had been talking and she had been excited about something… 

**0000000000000**

“Mary? What are you doing here?”

“Celebrating,” she said, pushing past him. 

“Celebrating? What on earth…?”

“Share a beer with me? I’ve been promoted!” She was dancing on the balls of her feet, face split by a grin. 

“Promoted?”

“Yeah, I am officially Detective Inspector as of yesterday… Don’t look like that. I’m under cover and you’re the only one who knows! I can’t share it with anyone else…”

Greg sighed. “Can’t you share it with your husband?”

”Not married,” she said. “That was part of my cover. It explains if I get seen with my guv’nor.”

“You know, you’re in for it if they find out you told me…”

“Bugger that. They’ll give me a slap on the wrist, if they do anything at all, but it’s not like I told just anybody. You’re an ex-copper, Greg. You’re still part of the fold.”

Greg puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. “You are playing with fire.”

“I am making sure this operation does not go tits up,” she said, tapping him on the chest. “Now, this Sherlock guy you know. I also came to ask if you know how much he knows? You were tipped off by him, weren’t you? Dimmock works with him sometimes…Said he’s a right prick…”

“He’s...complex. And yes, he was the one who found out.”

“Share a beer with me, at least? You got an opener?”

“Yeah, somewhere. Look I was just about to go out, I need shopping.” He rummaged in the kitchen drawer and passed her the bottle opener. 

“Great, I’ll come with you. We can talk in the car…but first, let’s drink a toast. May the Force be with us…”

Greg sighed and allowed a smile, despite his suspicions. “Okay then, one beer, and then we have to get gone. I’ve got a ton of marking to get through.”

**0000000000000**

Greg lay back with a groan. The last thing he recalled was tipping back the beer bottle and toasting her success. _Mary. How the fuck did I fall for that one?_ She must have slipped something into the bottle, drugged him. _Why?_ Greg wondered whether they probably thought he was getting too close… _Now what?_ He couldn’t stay here… He patted his pockets but there was nothing in them. That would have been too easy. He wondered what they were planning on doing with him. If they had meant to kill him, they would have done it already. _Unless… if they think I’m some use before…_ He sighed again. Well, no good worrying about it until something happened. There was still no sound, no movement, nothing. He had no idea where he was. The house looked empty but he couldn’t go on the appearance of one room. Although the place sounded too empty. 

**0000000000000**

Mycroft spent the morning at the museum. One of the people loaning them items for the exhibition, a private collector, had requested a meeting but had not been able to come during the week due to his job so Mycroft had arranged to meet with him at the weekend. He had taken the man to lunch to discuss details but realised he had left his phone at home only when he looked for it to add the man’s number to his contacts. He returned home late on Saturday afternoon finding his phone on the hall table. Sighing with frustration, he had accessed his messages to find one was from Greg. He carried the phone through to the kitchen, intent on putting the kettle on, and hit speaker as he did so. Greg’s familiar voice filled the kitchen. “Mycroft, it’s Greg. Got a call from Ron Barker at the Met. Intending to go see him this evening. If you’re free I’d appreciate you coming along. Got questions need answering. Call me back, please?”

“Damn,” Mycroft muttered, checking his watch. It was three thirty. Maybe not too late. He found greg’s number on his contacts and listened as the call went to voicemail. _Damn…_

“Greg, it’s Mycroft. Sorry I missed your call. I had to go into work this morning but I forgot my phone, so I didn’t get your message until now. If you haven’t gone yet, I would like to accompany you to London…” Mycroft paused. “I too have questions. Sherlock is adamant there is no operation going on. I...need some answers too. Please call me, even if I’ve missed meeting up with you. I can text you my questions, if you wish.” Mycroft killed the call and stood in his kitchen uncertainly. He was not sure that he hadn’t been a bit brusk with his reply to Greg’s text about being too busy for a date this weekend. Of course he would be busy. Most teachers were these days. He made tea and took it out onto his veranda. 

When eight o’clock came and went, Mycroft texted Greg to check if he got the message. Darkness fell and Greg had still not called back. Mycroft toyed with calling again, in case the message had been missed. Nine o’clock came and went. He wondered what had happened. He finally picked up his phone and called his brother.

“You’re worried. What’s wrong? You never call me this late.”

“I’m not sure anything is wrong. Greg has not been in touch. I had a message when I returned from the museum today. I had to go in and meet with someone who could not see me during the week because of his work, so I arranged a meeting this morning. I forgot my phone and when I got home at around 3.30pm I found a message from Greg. He was going to see someone at the Met this evening, but it’s after nine…”

“And you expected him to call to update you? It is entirely typical he would do so. Whoever it is, is it not possible that he might have gone to the pub with the man? Isn’t that was police officers tend to do?”

“Entirely possible. However, something does not feel right…”

There was silence for a while. “Brother, mine,” Sherlock said. “I suggest you get some rest, call him tomorrow. If he does not reply, then we can go to his abode. I presume you know where he lives?”

“Above the shops on the High Street, in a flat there.”

“Then I suggest we call in the morning.”

“Sherlock…I wish to go now.”

“I understand, but it would be somewhat preemptive tonight.”

“You don’t suppose…”

“I suppose nothing until I have more data. Shroedinger’s cat, Mycroft. Everything is possible until the observer observes the outcome. I shall meet you tomorrow, and we shall investigate then.”

**00000000000000**

Greg was getting hungry and thirsty. As the next day dawned, nothing had happened during the night, and nothing continued to happen. Still there was no sound, no movement, no nothing. He was starting to shift from worried to angry. What if they were simply just going to leave him there, and nobody would find him until he had starved to death, or dehydrated. He tested the radiator and wobbled it. Maybe he could break it off its pipes… he couldn’t sit there and do nothing. So he started to pull, to rock the heavy iron thing and try to break it off the wall. The way the cuff had been fastened meant he wouldn’t be able to free himself from the actual radiator but he could always carry it with him, get out of a window, get the neighbours to call the police…

000000000000

There was nobody answering the door when Mycroft and Sherlock met at Greg’s flat the following morning. Without preamble, Sherlock went to work and picked the lock. Tentatively, Mycroft followed his brother into the flat but all the rooms were empty. The bed was cold. 

“Maybe he stayed with someone else?” Mycroft murmured, trying to keep both worry and disappointment out of his voice. 

“His keys and wallet are not here,” Sherlock said. “Neither is his phone. It doesn’t look like he has taken any clothing with him, although if he has gone for the weekend, he may not have taken much…”

“That does not fit with his message. He said he was going to visit with DI Barker at the Met yesterday. His schoolwork is here, and by the look he hasn’t done any of it. Gregory is conscientious enough to finish it all before school begins again on Monday. He would not simply leave it like this. I find it very doubtful he would stay away when there is this much work to do.”

"His car is still here..." Sherlock said. "That's his, isn't it?" He pointed down through the rear window, indicating the BMW parked in its slot behind the building. 

"If he was going to London, he may not have taken his car. He could have easily taken a taxi to the station and gone by train. That's how we went the last time." 

“Well, we can confirm if he got there.” Sherlock took out his phone and scrolled down his contacts. “Hello, Detective Inspector Dimmock…” There was a pause and the voice at the other end of the phone sounded resigned even though Mycroft could not make out words. “I need a contact number from you... Yes...DI Ron Barker, Fraud Squad….yes, it is for a case…Dimmock, would I ask you for something if it was irrelevant?” There was a longer pause. “I suspect someone has gone missing, that’s why. I need to contact Barker to find out if he met with this person yesterday… Yes, I...yes, thank you,” Sherlock said. “I would appreciate it if you could impress upon him the urgency of this call…Damn the man,” he muttered. “He rang off on me.” 

“What is he going to do?”

“He’s calling Barker for us. He refused to pass on his number.”

“Not a surprise, hardly. Privacy issues, as always.” Mycroft watched Sherlock prowl the flat over the next few minutes, examining things, sniffing the air… “I wonder…” Mycroft began but was interrupted by Sherlock’s phone ringing.

“Yes?” There was a pause as Sherlock listened. “Thank you for calling so quickly. Yes, I gather you were meeting with former DI Lestrade yesterday? Greg Lestrade. Yes, I was wondering if he made that meeting with you?" There was a short pause. "He didn’t?” Sherlock sighed. “He’s missing, that’s why. I’m at his flat now. There’s nobody here. Nothing looks to have been disturbed. I suggest he was not expecting to go anywhere, his teaching work has not been completed and he is nothing if not diligent where his work is concerned. There are no signs of a struggle either. No, I did not break in! I am with my brother, Mycroft. He...has a key. He and Greg are...friends…” Sherlock blagged breezily. “Yes, it does mean that the door was locked…Look, if he didn’t make your meeting, I suggest foul play. He called and left a message with my brother to the effect that he was going to see you, and would my brother come with him?” Mycroft listened to Sherlock explaining about his morning meeting and forgetting his phone, not getting Greg’s message until after 3pm. There was another pause as Barker replied to Sherlock’s comments. “Probably tied in with the potential theft, yes. Of course it’s real. I can give you all the details…” Sherlock listened intently to what Barker had to say, then rang off. “Apparently, Greg told him he had been asked to back off by someone from the Met, but he failed to say who. Art Theft have not heard anything concerning a potential heist and as far as he can find out, nobody has a police operation ongoing concerning The Sherinnford. He says he checked with everyone, but there is nothing. He is fairly sure there is nothing covert either. So…”

“What does that mean?”

“Whoever Greg’s supposed police contact is, they are probably fraudulent. He has been conned into believing that whoever this person is, he or she is a legitimate officer…” 

“So where is he?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock said, his voice hardening. “Barker said he would contact his superiors and see what might be done. That will take forever… If they have taken Greg, and for my mind that is the most likely, they’ll have placed him somewhere secure…”

“We are dangerously close to the delivery of the Venus. I am thinking they are responsible for this, that they have taken him, probably because we were getting too close.”

“I know. However, they have not yet come for either of us...possibly because it would be too dangerous. I doubt Greg has been harmed. They probably intend to use him as leverage over your cooperation in the heist.”

”You think they will contact me?”

”Almost certainly now. However, we can preempt this, but…”

”Sherlock, a police operation will risk harm to Gregory…”

”I know, brother, but there is another path we can pursue…”

**000000000000**

Greg rocked the radiator hard and felt the clunk as it gave way, spewing water out across the floor. He didn’t care. He worked on the other end, using its weight to twist it free from the wall, although being attached to it made this awkward. He hefted the thing into his arms and went to the window. He was on the first floor, looking down on an ordinary street. It was anonymous, lined with trees and cars, it could have been anywhere. Greg went to the door with the intent to get out as fast as he could, to go ask the neighbours to call the police.... His heart nearly stopped as the door suddenly opened wide of its own accord. Mary was standing there, her face an implacable mask, and worse, she had a gun in her hand, its muzzle trained unwaveringly on him.


	18. Between a Rock and a Hard Place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting tense...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long. I've finally had the chance for a small chapter to push things along. Enjoy. Thank you for your patience...

“Mary? What the Hell is going on?” Greg braced the radiator against his chest and briefly considered using it as a weapon but Mary stiffened and changed the angle of her aim. “You fucking drugged me?”

”Get back in there,” she ordered, stepping back out of range. “If you are thinking what I think you’re thinking, you can get that idea out of your head right now. Step back and sit down or I _will_ shoot you, most probably in the leg. Which need I say would be rather painful and possibly fatal. The boss wants to have a little chat.” 

“Does she now? What could she possibly have to say that I would want to listen to?”

“Oh, I think you’ll want to listen to this, pet.” Irene said, drifting into the room from behind Mary. Where Mary was poised for the attack, Irene was relaxed indifference. She leaned against the wall and regarded him through lowered lashes. 

“Think again,” Greg almost spat at her. She smiled, pouting. 

“Oh, my dear Greg, you really should be more open minded. I have a proposition for you that I know you won’t be able to refuse. I have lots of people working for me, and Mary here is one of the best, aren’t you, Poppet?” Mary barely acknowledged the complement. “If you don’t do exactly as I say, well...that friend of yours...What’s his name again? Mycroft, wasn’t it? Well, your little Mycroft will find himself on the receiving end of one of Mary’s bullets. Did I tell you she’s very good? Former special forces. She has an amazing skill set, and I do so appreciate amazing skill sets. However, don’t let that stop you...if you’re determined…” She hesitated for a moment, raising an eyebrow, watching him intently. “Thought as much,” she continued with a smile, when he didn’t move. “I have a proposition for you that will result in you both being alive after all of this is over. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Just stop it, Princess,” Greg snapped. “I’m a copper, remember? I’m used to dealing with this kind of thing...and its aftermath. When you’re done, you’ll kill us both, because you’ll just be tying up loose ends. I might not have seen this coming, but I’m not naive.”

“Oh, no need to be so dramatic, Greg. When we are done, we’re leaving the country. We have a destination in mind that nobody will locate. Enough money, name changes, sympathetic government…” She smiled. “I think we can be a bit magnanimous with those who help us…”

“I am not helping you. Whatever you end up forcing me to do will be done under duress, not because I want to…”

“Oh, I beg to differ. You’ll want to do this,” she said, her demeanour changing. “Because if you don’t, I shall ensure that your lovely Mr Holmes will suffer, and suffer severely. I might even let Charles have him. He’s worse than me. No morals at all. Now let’s be honest about this. Mycroft Holmes is going to suffer anyway; him and his brother. They’re old adversaries of mine and I owe them a fall. However, there is a way you can minimise that suffering. You are stuck between the Devil and the deep blue sea, pet. Between a rock and a hard place. I’m going to let you choose between the lesser of two evils.” Greg stayed silent, waiting, stubbornly refusing to be goaded into speaking. “You were getting too close, you see, you and that good-for-nothing pretty boy who calls himself a detective. However, it all works out for us in the end. You can still be useful. Now listen carefully and I will outline my plan. I so hate repeating myself so please pay attention. Then I am going to leave you to think about it for a while. Once you have considered, you will agree, or I shall simply have Mary remove any _and all_ obstacles in our way….”

**0000000000**

“At least this door is latched,” Mycroft said, as they stepped out. “If the police find out I don’t have a key, they might start asking awkward questions.” Sherlock shrugged. 

“I think breaking and entering are the least of our problems, Mycroft,” he suggested. After the phone call to Barker, Mycroft had suggested they vacate Greg’s flat at their earliest opportunity.

“So now what? What is our next move?”

“We wait,” Sherlock said. 

“You expect them to contact us,” Mycroft suggested, glancing at his brother.

“They will. Probably they will make him do it, ask you to meet him, or some such. Probably at the museum, where they will coerce you into handing over the Venus in exchange for him.”

“That would seem the most sense. Although, are you telling me that they won’t expect us to be fully cognisant of what they are doing?”

“I do not think that the Venus is the issue here, Mycroft.”

“Then what the Blue Blazes is it about, Sherlock? What on earth is going on in your head that you would even consider that?”

“I think this is about us, Mycroft. You and I, and her, The Woman. I think she’s out for revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“Yes. Revenge. The dish that is supposedly best served cold and all that crap. Revenge. Against us. I need to contact father…”

**000000000**

“Holmes,” Mycroft said on answering his landline later that evening. Sherlock had disappeared off to talk to John and Mycroft had retreated home to wait. The phone ringing jarred his nerves in the quiet of the evening.

“Mr Holmes, how nice to speak to you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot say the same...Ms Freeborn, wasn’t it?”

“So glad you remembered my name. Now, let me be brief. We currently have a guest staying with us. Your friend, Mr Lestrade. Do nothing until you hear from us again, or you know what will happen. Please don’t be tedious and contact the police, not unless you want me to post him back to you in pieces…”

Mycroft sighed. “I think we’re all grown ups here, Ms Freeborn…”

“Quite possibly you might think the grown up thing to do is call the police. Inadvisable, Mr Holmes.”

“You cannot possibly think I will do nothing.”

“Oh yes, I can. I will hurt him, Mycroft. If you do _anything,_ ” she said, her voice cold, “and I mean anything to scupper my plans, I will cripple him. Do you understand me? I will render him useless to you. _Useless_ , in all ways possible.” 

Mycroft listened with growing dread that they had severely underestimated The Woman, and her ambition. He began to believe that Greg was certainly in danger. There was an underlying threat in her voice, the voice of a woman who had been backed into a corner… 

**0000000000**

“You want me to what?”

“I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”

“You want me to lie to Mycroft and make him believe that I’m in on this? That I’m working with you? No, absolutely not. Shoot me now…”

“I’m not doing the shooting. She is,” Irene said, glancing at Mary. “And she won’t be shooting you. If you don’t comply, then she’ll shoot your boyfriend. Not to kill. With luck she’ll put him in a wheelchair. At worst, he’ll die, and it’s probably preferable to the life he’d live as a paraplegic. I’m happy to make sure he’ll be unable to fuck you, at any rate. Either way, I get my revenge.” Her expression grew dark. 

Greg felt himself go cold. “This isn’t about the Venus, is it? It’s not about a heist...It’s about them, isn’t it? About Mycroft…”

“Oh, I remember him and his brother _very_ well,” she said sourly. “That evening in the restaurant, he thought I didn’t remember, but I’m a very, _very_ good actress, Greg. That family…” She hissed like an angry cat, mouth twisting in an ugly line. “I had a very good career. I had a name, a reputation, and _they ruined me_.”

“Just hang on a minute. You intended to fuck over the Royals. You were the one holding people to ransom. The Holmes brothers stopped you, but you still got off scot free....”

“I never held anyone to ransom!” she snapped, her composure slipping momentarily. “I held _information_ , that was all. A safety net, in case anybody tried anything. In my position it was only sense to build up a shield of some sort. I was safe, and so their secrets would have been, but no, that wasn’t enough. Sherlock Bloody Holmes and his interfering brother just had to stick their noses in, didn’t they? They just _had_ to close me down. Well, I got away, but I had to spend thousands on a new identity, and forging documents isn’t cheap. I used up most of the favours I was owed and now your precious boyfriend and his brother _owe me_. This little plan of mine is going to make me enough to retire on, it’s going to make me some new friends, and get me my revenge at the same time.”

“You know that the figure is only worth three hundred thousand, don’t you? Hardly enough to retire on.” Greg caught himself. Since when had three hundred thousand been an _only?_

She looked at him as if he were stupid. “To the right bidder, it’s worth millions, Greg. Besides, I’m doing it as a favour for a friend. I deliver this, and my future is assured. Now be a good boy and do as you are told and both you and your boyfriend might just escape this with your extremities still working. If you fuck this over, you will both of you suffer, I promise you, he’ll hurt far more that simply finding out you were involved....” She turned and stalked out, leaving Mary staring at him. There was an awkward pause.

”You’re working with her…” Greg accused, and shook his head, disappointed. “You lied to me. You’re not police.”

”If you mean Irene, then yes, I am working for her,” she replied, but held a finger to her lips for a moment. She turned, watching the door. They could both hear the receding footsteps as Irene went down the stairs. “but honestly?” Mary lowered her voice to a whisper. “Frankly, I think she’s a talentless cow, and a bitch to boot. I have a career and it’s already been put on hold long enough.” 

“Career? What as? An impersonator?”

Mary grinned. “Suppose you could call it the location and delivery of people of interest…”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that if anyone expresses an interest in someone, I find them that person and deliver them on a plate, for the right price…”

“Deliver them? You mean, hand them over to...whoever is looking for them?”

“Yup. Spot on. I don’t do assassinations, too messy, and despite what she told you, I’m not that good a shot. Then there’s the mess over hiding the body, setting up the shot, all kinds of crap. Despite being able to put one in you quite accurately if you try anything, I’m not a sniper. No, I deliver goods. Set people up, help them meet, make sure people are...handed over to whoever pays.”

“Fucking Hell, blood money? So if the Mafia are hunting someone, they pay you?”

“Basically, yes. But, if there’s something else to deliver too, I can do that as well. This time it’s the Venus. Sure it’s not worth much in itself, but to a collector…Irene wasn’t wrong about that. The right person will pay to own something they want. Add that to my people-finding fee and this will have been a very lucrative job.”

“So what, who have you been paid to find?”

“Ah, Greg you make a better teacher than a copper. Them of course, Irene and Charles Bloody Milverton, the Russians want them, quite a lot if the fee is anything to go by…”

“So, what? When this is over you’ll kill me, and anyone else in the way.”

“Darling, I am not going to kill you. You are too useful, at the moment. I’m asking you to play along, just for now. Make her think you’re capitulating, and I can get you out of here, hopefully alive with your fella and a long retirement to look forward to. If you don’t comply, then it’s been nice knowing you, but I will not let you fuck this up. Okay, so I lied. I’m not a copper, but I am unofficial judge and jury on them, and I can get you out of this.”

Greg frowned, and sat still while she detached him from the radiator. “And why should I trust you?”

“I think it’s got something to do with being between a rock and a hard place. You don’t have a lot of choice, let’s face it.”

“Okay. Say I play along. One thing.”

“What?”

“Whatever happens, protect Mycroft. I don’t really care what happens to me. I died three years ago, Mary. Okay, so I might have found someone to love, but...Ellie was my life, and when I lost her, and our kid...If I die, honestly, I won’t be unhappy about it. However, Myc doesn’t deserve this. Please?” Mary regarded him with curiosity.

“Christ, you’re serious,” she said. 

“Deadly. No pun intended.” He watched her regard him, obviously thinking hard.

“I can’t promise anything, you know I can’t. However… I like you, Greg. You’re a good guy, more’s the pity, so I’ll do my best, can’t promise more.”

“Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t trust me, you know?” 

“What happened to the rock and a hard place?” He grinned. 

For a moment, Mary looked troubled. “I don’t keep my promises.”

“Mary.” He fixed her with a meaningful look. “None of us is perfect.” 


	19. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft learns something he really doesn't want to.

They left Greg alone in the room to think about what had been said. The evening shadows lengthened and the light faded, leaving him in concealing gloom. There was a guard on the door, and with nothing else to do, Greg sat glowering at the wall. Some time later that evening, once full dark had fallen, Mary came back with fish and chips for them all. She released him from the handcuffs (she may have released him from the radiator but she had left the cuffs on for security) and took him downstairs into the kitchen where the guard was already sitting at the table scarfing down his fish like he was on the verge of starvation. Mary made coffee for them all and the guard took himself off to the living room where there was a small television. Pretty soon the sounds of some inane chat show could be heard, and over it, the man’s laughter at the stupidity. Greg took his time with his food, staying quiet. 

“She doesn’t completely trust me, you know?” Mary murmured conspiratorially. 

“Is that why I’m not alone with you? She’s left her hired help to make sure things go according to plan?”

“That meathead. Hired help is right. He’s nobody. A thug. I could easily take him out if he causes a problem and what’s more, he knows it. He won’t blab anything. He’s not paid to report a problem, only deal with what he’s told to.” 

“If you’re sure.”

“Nothing in this life is sure, Greg, but I am sure about what I would do to that moron if he says anything to Irene and what’s more, so is he.”

“Well, if we don’t speak, then he won’t have anything to say, will he?”

“True, but not how I envisioned this evening going.” She looked at him from under lowered brows. 

“If you think I might be interested…” Greg shuddered, “...or is that another condition of my escape?”

She laughed. “It wouldn’t be, believe me. I’m gay, Greg. Not interested, although I can appreciate what he sees in you.”

Greg huffed a short humourless laugh. “Thanks, I think. So, not married as well?”

“Cover story. I’m not attached, it’s better that way. Single, free…”

“Lonely…”

“Shut up, Greg. Stop trying to analyse me. You won’t succeed.”

“Budgies do that a lot…”

She frowned. “What?”

“Suck seed…”

Mary huffed an exasperated laugh. “God, you are impossible…” She shook her head. “Won’t work, you know. I am not your friend, Greg.”

“That much I do know, but a laugh never hurts…”

“Unless you get kicked in the nuts.” 

“Okay, I’ll shut up.”

“Look, luv, don’t be under any illusions, I need you as my safety net. After dear Charles and Irene think they’ve got away with it, I will deliver both her and that back-stabbing SOB she’s currently toying with to the people who want them. Buddy-boy caused the people I have a contract with some trouble awhile ago, and Irene...well, she’s got one too many of their people over a barrel with all the personal information that she has on them. They want the threat neutralized.”

“Who are they?”

“Ah, no, you do not need that information, Greg. Even if I could give you specifics, which I’m actually not sure I could do. I get paid. I don’t ask searching questions.”

“Mary, this is crazy. This is just not real life…”

“Is this just fantasy…?” she crooned, “Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality…” She laughed again and punched his shoulder. “Oh, Greg, come on, you were the one saying we needed a laugh. This is _very_ real, babe. It’s my job. I go undercover to find these people, and things, that other people want, but cannot use a lawful way to get. Simple as that. You are collateral damage, my Plan B, if you like. Things go pear-shaped, you’re my hostage.” 

“Thanks. How do you even get a job like that? Can’t imagine there are many adverts...”

“That was frighteningly easy, actually. I grew up on the streets, joined the army, passed their tests, got noticed, did a couple of tours, ended up working special ops, yada, yada. There are quite a few of us, actually. I left the ranks a few years ago, got into security work, and then I took a job for someone who...well, let’s just say there was stuff going on that paid very well indeed. Much better that the army did anyway, or private security for that matter. I found out pretty fast that my skill set is ideally suited to this type of work. Now I have contacts. Mine got in touch with hers, word was passed that someone with my skill set was required for a job, and so she gave me the teaching job in the school, and that was it. Did some teaching assistant work when I was in my late teens, blagged the rest with Google. It got me by… Got the job in October half term, after Moaning Minny left. Minny Halifax was my predecessor. Irene bullied her out of the job…”

“Same reason Louise left?”

“Yup, neat isn’t it. Frankly though, Louise was a shit teacher. She deserved to get the boot.”

“Nobody deserves to be bullied,” Greg snapped.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Heard it before. Stuck record… Look, I let Irene do all the work, and then I walk off with the proceeds. That’s as far as it goes, I don’t care what happens to anyone else. I told you before, I am not altruistic, I am out for me, numero uno, period.”

“What I don’t get is you’ve been passing yourself off as a teacher for what, six months? Seven? Why? How come nobody’s found you out?” 

“Because I have qualifications on file, I obey the rules and I do teach the kids, it’s just something I find easy. Kids are like little adults before they get fucked up with rules or too much overthinking. Find the thing they want and bribe them with it. Motivation, Greg. Find the button and press, hard. Besides, this contract was set up almost a year ago, sometimes I have to plan long term. It’s worth my while, Greg. Monetarily, of course, not to mention the boost to my professional rep. I needed to get close to her, so I put the word out I was looking for work, my fixer contacted hers, and Bob’s your uncle.”

“So, you got a job working for her doing what, exactly?”

“Teaching, Greg.” Mary grinned. “Well, maybe a few other things that required...professional help; messenger work, courier duties, that kind of thing. She was reconstructing her life, and she was making plans, courting Milverton as well, and Culverton Smith, although he never realised she was playing him. Means to an end, both of them. Wouldn’t be surprised if she was planning to throw them both out of the plane over the Atlantic.” For a moment, Mary was lost in thought, then she reached for her coffee cup and drained it. “When Milverton found out about the British Museum lending something to the Sherrinford, he came to her with the information, and Culverton Smith backed it up with what he found out all about the new exhibition and this little gold Venus… Of course when Irene learned Mycroft Holmes was the new Director, well, she went for it. Couldn’t miss that opportunity, right on her doorstep? Good God, for her, she thought Christmas had come. Steal the Venus, discredit Holmes in the process, make her enemy suffer, live on the proceeds… Irene knew things were getting a little warm, for both of them. They’re planning this to be their last job before they disappear, off to South America probably. They’ll flee the scene. Charlie is still into flogging fakes, although he's had to be a bit more careful about it, seeing as how they're onto him. Offshore accounts, proxies, that kind of thing. They'll head for anonymity in Rio or some such… The Venus is wanted by a client in one of the big drug cartels. I should think she’s planning to take it with her all sewn up in the lining of a handbag.”

“This is seriously fucked up.”

“I know,” she chuckled. “Good, isn’t it? Now, listen. You are going to be a good boy and stay here until we’re ready. Don’t worry, I’m sure arrangements can be made to find a substitute teacher. We know you’re _off sick._ ” She grinned. “I’ll tell Sholto not to worry. They deliver the venus on Tuesday, and Irene will use you as leverage to get Holmes to meet us at the museum.” 

“You cannot possibly get away with this…” Greg shook his head. “Let me go, I can persuade the police I was kidnapped. You can still deliver the goods…”

“No, Greg. Sorry. Not in my plans. I still need the Venus as well. Look, we can and will pull this off, but you will do as you’re told. I help you, and you’re going to help me.” 

**0000000000**

Mycroft called in sick on the Monday. He wasn’t needed for the arrival of the Venus and he felt it best to stay away. He wasn’t sure he could keep up the pretence. The Exhibition Officer, the Head of Conservation and the Head of Security would all be present the following day, despite it feeling as though he was chickening out of it. God only knew what was happening to Greg. The plan was to place the thing in the hidden safe in Mycroft’s office, and only two people knew the combination to that; himself and his Head of Security. They would text him when it was received and done. It would be installed in its case the following day, which would make it that much harder to steal. 

Sherlock found his brother wearing a hole in the carpet with his pacing the floor when he called later that afternoon.

“I went to the Museum but they said you called in sick. What’s the matter?”

“She called me, yesterday evening,” Mycroft admitted.

“Oh. Why didn’t you call me?” 

“I did, Sherlock, but your phone went to voicemail.” 

“You could have left a message.”

“I did not think that wise.”

Sherlock huffed. “What did she say?”

“Just that they had a guest, and I should do nothing or he will suffer.”

“Standard enough. She’s just keeping you in line.”

“I know. I…We should involve the police. This is kidnapping and theft...”

“We tried to involve the police…”

“But not with anything concrete. This...goes against my conscience…”

“He’ll be alright, Mycroft. They cannot afford not to have your cooperation. Did you speak to him?”

“No.”

“Damn, should have asked for confirmation that he was alive.”

“Sherlock!”

“What? You should have. Shows them you’re not a pushover.” Mycroft glowered. “They’ll call again. Do it then,” Sherlock added, sitting down.

“Are you expecting something?”

“I was hoping for tea, but if you’re averse, I can make my own.”

“Why are you here?”

“I have spoken to father.”

“And?”

“He promised to talk to one of his contacts at MI6.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to huff. “They’re slower than the police...”

“We can but see. She’s a person of interest. The Venus arrives tomorrow and it will most likely happen then. They’ll have a schedule to keep, they’ll leave the country as quickly as possible afterward.”

“And anything the security services do may compromise Gregory’s safety.”

“Yes, well…Let’s hope for the best, shall we? I’m away then.”

“Not stopping for that tea?”

“No, remembered something. Tell me when they call. Laters...”

**00000000000**

“Mycroft…”

Mycroft realised he was holding the phone as though it would explode. “Gregory?” Mycroft tried to keep his voice level. Part of him was relieved that Greg was talking to him, that he was alive. Part of him was terrified this would all go wrong. “Are you...alright? They haven’t… haven’t hurt you?” 

“I’m fine, it’s fine...I...um...look, can we…? I mean, I need to meet you…”

“You do?”

“Yes. I need you to…Look, I need to meet you at the museum, tonight.”

“Gregory…”

“That’s quite enough now.” Irene had taken the phone. “Now you know he’s alright, and he’ll stay that way as long as you comply, you can meet us at the museum, Mr holmes. On the dot of eight please.” 

“Very well. The Museum is, however, rather a large place. I shall need to meet you in the staff car park, at the rear…”

“Mr Holmes,” Irene said warningly, “I rather think…”

“Look, do you wish to get in or not?” Mycroft asked. “The only door accessible after hours is the staff entrance, where the main alarm system is located. The item you want is still in store, behind the scenes, so unless you wish to alert the local constabulary to your presence, you have no requirement to access the rest of the property. However, if you want to make a grand entrance, far be it from me to place a damper on your plans. Otherwise, I shall meet with you at the rear of the property, accessed via the yard between the museum and the park. At eight. As you requested.” There was a pause.

“Very well, Mr Holmes. Alone, no tricks.”

“I suppose it is no good requesting that you do not hurt Gregory…”

“Come alone, Mr Holmes. Eight o’clock. Precisely.”

**0000000000**

His footsteps across the empty car park at the back of the Museum sounded loud in the evening quiet. This part of the place was hidden away behind a high Victorian brick wall. In the old days it had been the tradesman’s entrance, for deliveries and other things that should be kept behind the scenes and out of sight of visitors. The coal sheds and outdoor staff toilets, long since demolished, had occupied the back wall. It was now the staff car park, but still allowed access to the boiler room in the basement. Mycroft stood for a moment looking about him. He had closed, but not locked, the heavy wooden gates behind him. So far, everything was quiet. As requested, he had called Sherlock and left a message concerning the arrangements. The call had gone straight to voicemail, so Mycroft had no idea if his brother had even received the message. 

The church clock began to strike the hour as he went to the door and put his key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door expecting the alarm to buzz impatiently at him. He was used to turning up after hours; something forgotten, work he preferred to do in the environs of his office, research for a few hours when he could be assured of peace and quiet. The staff area had an alarm separate from the main museum, for various reasons. Conservation could carry out work independently of the rest of the place being closed, Mrs Hudson could stock-take her stores until late evening to her heart's content. While the main museum had a twenty four hour guard, as long as nobody breached the internal staff door, which was securely locked once the museum closed, the backstage area could be accessed from outside while maintaining security across the rest of the premises. However, tonight...someone was working late. The Staff alarm was not set. There was no beep when he opened the door. So...who on earth…? Mycroft had no time to contemplate. 

“Mr Holmes,” the silky voice said behind him. She stood there, dressed all in black, looking like she was ready for a night on the town. Like the proverbial Morrigan, his mind supplied. Battle Crow. Actually, on balance, The Morrigan had more honour… 

“Ms Adler, or should that be Ms Freeborn?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, carelessly. “Neither is the real one, so… to business. You know why I’m here.”

“Yes, I do. We can either stand on the threshold, or step inside like civilised people and talk in my office?” 

“Very well. In you come, boys,” she called. Two men walked in behind them, taking up defensive positions on either side of the door. Her heavies. They were dressed forgettably; jeans and t-shirts, although the jackets were an obvious necessity to hide firearms. “I have someone else who you’ve been _dying_ to see…” She stood back and Culverton Smith stepped inside. Mycroft frowned.

“You?” he said.

“Yes. Me. Surprised, Mr Holmes? It’s about time I was recognised for something. Years, I’ve been coming here, years! Your predecessor ignored my talents. The university ignores my talents. I finally found someone who doesn’t.” He stepped aside, moving around them to head for the inner door. “Don’t worry,” he trilled. “I know the code.” Mycroft wasn’t watching him. A shadow had filled the door, and Mycroft was flooded with relief. 

“Gregory?” Just the sight of him was a balm.

“Hello, Mycroft.” Mycroft paused at the odd tone in Gregory’s voice. He sounded strained. 

“Gregory? What’s wrong? Have they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Mycroft.” Greg kept his voice level, impassive, cold. “You remember Sherlock once accused me of being your mole?” He asked, almost conversationally.

“I...yes...but…” Mycroft stuttered to a stop at the hard look in Gregory’s eyes. “Gregory?”

“Sorry, Mycroft. Seems he was right.”


	20. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is in turmoil, and the Woman has her revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this doesn't hang together, please comment, because I'm not even sure any more. I got over my writer's block...in a rush, and while I always knew what the story was going to do, it isn't betaed, so apologies if something glares that I can't see. Hope you enjoy anyway.

“No…” Mycroft glanced from Gregory to Irene and back, noting the smirk of satisfaction on her face. 

“Makes quite a good accomplice, your boyfriend. Sorry, Mycroft. Greg was very... _forthcoming_ about the details here. He managed to fool you, at any rate. Gave us all the information we needed. He’s a very... _loyal._..employee.” 

“How long…?” 

“Since the beginning.” Greg’s voice was hard, unemotional. “Convenient really. Coming here, meeting you. Working for Irene is...interesting, to say the least.” The sincerity in Greg’s voice went straight to Mycroft’s heart. A chill went down his back. He swallowed, his throat dry. _Could it be…? Sherlock had been very convincing…_ He felt sick. He dredged his memory, looking for evidence in Greg’s behaviour that would refute the claim, but his mind was a fog of doubt and stress... 

“Come on, guys,” Mary said, pushing past Greg. Mycroft did not miss that they were not treating the man like a prisoner. He was not bound in any way. Mary removed her Glock from its holster in the small of her back and motioned with it. Mycroft eyed the gun in her hand and frowned. “Move,” she suggested. “Let’s not draw undue attention to ourselves, hm? Let’s get in and shut the door…” 

Upstairs Mycroft fell heavily into the chair behind his desk. Part of him was thankful they hadn’t met anyone on the way. He still had no idea who was there, who had not put the alarm on, or who had taken it off. Irene, Greg, Mary and Smith all filed in behind him. Of Milverton there was no sign. Mycroft was still trying to get his head around Greg being part of all this. Something in him said it was wrong, a trick, but Greg had seemed so very hard, so truthful… 

“So…” Mycroft began, breaking the silence. “You want the Venus?” 

“Yes, I do. However, first, I want something else.” 

“Oh?”

“Where’s that annoying brother of yours?”

“Sherlock? I...I have no idea. I am not his keeper…”

“That’s a laugh. Without you, Sherlock Holmes would have been dead years ago. Not his keeper, eh? Well, someone has to make sure he behaves himself. He’s a loose canon, Mycroft. A drug user, brushes with the law… tut, tut. What would the Queen say?”

“The Queen has always been gracefully sympathetic. She is somewhat used to _wayward_ family members by now…” Irene’s eyebrows rose but she didn’t rise to the bait. 

“Smith?” she called. 

“Yes, Ms Freeborn?” Culverton Smith hastened to obey.

She glanced at her watch. “Go tell my men to expect us in around ten minutes, and get them to contact Charles. Have him bring the car around to the back gates. Thule Street. Go.” The man hurried off through the door. Once he had disappeared, she turned back to Mycroft. “Tiresome little man but useful. Like so many of my people.” She sighed. “Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft, I owe you a fall, you and your brother. It’s a pity he isn’t around. You could call him for me, ask him to join the party...”

“Do you honestly wish me to? I would have thought time was of the essence for you?”

“Yeees,” she drawled. “Pity really. I’ll just have to make do with you then. Sorry, Mycroft, but you’ll just have to suffer for both of you.”

“So what exactly do you want, apart from the Venus, that is?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I want to watch you squirm, Mycroft Holmes.”

“To...I’m sorry, what?”

“Squirm, like a worm on my hook.” She giggled. “I gather you’ve done some squirming already... on a bigger hook, if you catch my drift?” She glanced at Greg. “You went all the way with him, didn’t you?” she said suggestively. Greg nodded. “What was he like, hm? So responsive in your hands...Likes a firm touch, didn’t you say?” Greg fixed his eyes on her impassively. He nodded. Mycroft looked stricken. Irene looked at Mycroft with a greedy intensity. “And now you know Greggy there is not what he seems. Such a pity, hm? You had something good going there. You know he told me all about what you like… Said you were... _pretty_ …under those suits of yours.” 

Mycroft opened his mouth but no sound emerged. He looked at Greg, to find he was staring stonily back. “G.G.Greg…? Why?”

For a moment, it looked like Greg was not going to answer. Then he spoke, his voice soft and strained. “Like I told you, when I left the force, I had nothing. Like Smith there. Nobody wanted to listen. So I retrained, and Irene...she gave me a job when nobody else would. She took a chance on a rookie teacher. Why do that, eh? So I...owe her…” He shrugged, turned away. “It was good, Mycroft. But it’s over. I’ve nothing more to say to you.” He walked to the door. Mary followed him.

“B.b.but…” Mycroft stuttered. “How?” He couldn’t get his brain to work, to refute what was happening. “I mean, you were so shocked when I told you who Irene was…? How could you…?”

“I’m a better actor than I thought I was, I guess. Come on, Myc. I couldn’t _not_ react...That would have looked suspicious. Anyway, doesn’t really matter now, I guess.” He turned his back. “Goodbye, Mycroft.” Mycroft could only watch as Greg disappeared through the door. 

Irene stepped between them, blocking Mycroft’s view. “Oo, look at you. Hurts, doesn’t it, being betrayed?” She studied Mycroft like a cat with a mouse. She was watching his reaction. “Believe it now? Of course you want it to be a lie. However, it’s not. Get used to it. Now, there’s something else I want…” Mycroft turned his gaze on her. “An apology. For what you and your little brother did to me. The damage you did…” she snarled. “Mycroft Holmes, your _bloody family_ … Why couldn’t you have left me alone?”

“You threatened one of the Royal Family,” Mycroft said softly, with a patience he did not feel. 

“I did no such thing! Those photos were safe. I would _never_ have blackmailed anyone. Those photos were my security and you... you and your father and your brother, you took that all away from me!” 

“My father did what he was instructed to do, which was to find you and those photos, destroy them and bring you down. Which my brother managed to do. With my help. I am sorry if you consider that to be unacceptable.” 

“Unacceptable?” She snarled. “Oh, Mycroft, it was far, far more than simply _unacceptable_ …”

“Ma’am, this is not accomplishing our objective…” Mary interjected from the doorway. “The plane? We have a schedule to keep. ” she prompted. 

For a moment it looked as if Irene was going to argue, but she mastered herself and glared at Mycroft. “Unfortunately, my associate is right. We have a schedule to keep. So, to business…”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, Ms Freeborn, or Adler, or whatever else you choose to call yourself. I am not about to let you do this.” Mycroft stood, squaring his shoulders. “You have managed to exact your revenge. I fell for the man who now stands exposed as your informant. Gregory…” he was aware his voice was tight with pain, and he turned his eyes on the door, but Greg had gone. He focused his gaze back on Irene. “Be assured that you have taken my world away from me, dragged the proverbial rug clean out from under my feet, and now you have no other leverage…”

“Mycroft, you will unlock your safe and hand the Venus to me, now. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise what? You’ll shoot me? Have Mary shoot me? That will accomplish nothing. Culverton Smith does not know the combination to the safe, nor its whereabouts, and nor does Gregory...”

Irene stared at him, gaze steady. “If you do not comply, I will have him shot.” 

“Pardon?”

“I will execute Gregory Lestrade.”

“But…”

“He’s expendable, Mycroft, just like all my staff. What? He betrayed you. Doesn’t he deserve to die?” She cocked her head on one side and pouted. “Ah, no, you see, you silly man, you still have feelings for him. You still love him. Don’t you? So if you don’t comply, he dies. Mary?”

“Boss?”

“Shoot Lestrade, now!”

Mary frowned, but raised the weapon, clicked off the safety and aimed it through the door.

“Mr Holmes is being uncooperative,” Irene said. “Shoot him somewhere disabling to begin with…” Mary lowered the gun a little.

“No!” Mycroft burst out. “Alright… I’ll help you...”

“Are you going to hand over the Venus?” Irene demanded. 

“Yes, yes, I will. Just...don’t. Don’t hurt him because of me.” 

“Oblige me then.”

Mycroft got up on shaking legs, doing his best not to let it show. He went to the painting across the room, hanging on the end wall of his office. He tugged it back, revealing a panel in the wall. “I want your assurance, you’ll not harm Gregory…” 

“Right now, you’ve got no other choice, Mycroft. If you don’t, I will have her kill him.” 

He turned to the panel and slid it away, revealing a safe set into the wall. Resolutely, he pressed the code into the keypad on the door. There was a soft click, and the door opened. He lifted out a box with the British Museum logo emblazoned on the side, lifting the lid to check the contents. Inside was a smaller box, and he lifted the lid on that and pushed the soft packing to the side, taking his own first, and possibly only, look at the little Venus. Nestled in her plain archival storage, a marked contrast to the pure gold of her face, Mycroft saw the beauty, the timelessness of her. 

Mycroft had never been interested in obeying the dictates of a Higher Power, unless it was his own. He wasn’t even sure that he believed in anything of a spiritual nature. However, he did not miss the irony of the fact that Venus was herself Goddess of Love, a love in his case that seemed destined to escape him. _To save Gregory,_ he thought, _I do this to save the memory of what we had. Despite it being a lie, what I believed it to be still has worth. For a time, we were in love…I was in love..._

He turned, offering the box to Irene. She took it and stared at the contents, unmoved. She was simply checking the contents, making sure everything was correct. To her, it was nothing more than a commodity, something to be bought and sold, something to buy her favours and freedom. She looked up and met his eyes. She smiled. “Kill him anyway,” she said. Irene relished the horror that washed over Mycroft’s face as Mary lifted the gun, and fired. 

**000000000000**

**Twenty Minutes Earlier...**

“Oh, for God’s sake, John…” 

“What? I’m sorry we haven’t all got an eidetic memory!” John was scrolling through his phone looking for the note he had made of the Museum alarm code. Sherlock was on pins behind him. “Will you be still? I’m going as fast as I can. Ah, there it is. God!” He unlocked the door of the staff entrance and dashed to the panel, but no answering beeps met his ears. He halted, puzzled. “That’s odd.”

“What is? John…?”

“The alarm isn’t on. Someone’s already here.”

“What?” 

“I said…”

“I heard you, but who?”

“How do I know, you Berk? I’m not psychic. Maybe they’re already here,” he mused.

“Doubtful,” Sherlock said. “They’ve not left anyone on guard. Besides, Irene is nothing if not punctual.”

“Come on, there’s a staff fire board with our names on. Whoever still has their name tag in there has probably not left.” He punched in the code on the lock to let them through inner door. The name board yielded three names, and John frowned. “Well, Molly’s not here, I saw her go and she lives ages away. Never comes back at this time.”

“Left her keys or something?”

“If she had, she’d not bother signing in again. After hours, we don’t bother, specially if we’re in and out to collect something we forgot. More likely she forgot to sign out, she’s always doing that.”

“Who’s Anderson?”

“That’s more likely. He’s Head of Conservation…”

“The obnoxious one with the greasy hair…”

“You met him then?”

“Briefly. Enough to form an opinion.” 

“Oh, Good God, Mrs Hudson might still be here…” 

“Hudders will be alright.”

“Sherlock, she’s in her sixties!” 

“And?”

“She’s close to retirement…”

“And? John, she was married to a career criminal. I think she’s tougher than you realise…”

“Shh…”

“What?”

“Church clock, it’s striking the quarter hour. If they’re not already here, Mycroft will be arriving soon and so will they. Get that outer door closed. Here, lock it behind us.” He tossed Sherlock the key. “You know where the staff kitchen is?”

“Yes, I think so. Beyond my brother’s office? On the left,” Sherlock replied, locking the outer door as John held the inner one open for him. 

“Yes, well, opposite it is Mrs Hudson’s office. Her name is on the door. If she’s here, that’s where she’ll be. Go find her and explain the situation, then stay there. Wait for me. Understood?”

“John, why are you being so insistent that I find Mrs hudson?”

“Because you don’t know where Anderson hangs out. You’d get lost. This place is a rabbit warren. I’m going to go tell him to stay put, and I’ll meet you at Mrs Hudson’s in a few, okay? With luck there’ll be time before they get here.” 

“Wait, how will you get to us without them seeing you?”

“They’ll come in this way, because it’s the only way in after hours. I told you that. What I didn’t tell you is there’s another set of stairs at the far end of this corridor. I’ll come up that way. Now go.” Sherlock nodded and watched John hurry off, along the ground floor corridor, then he made his way up the stairs. 

**000000000**

Greg didn’t know how long he could hold it together. If he didn’t, Irene had promised to maim Mycroft badly enough for the man to suffer permanent damage for the rest of his days. If pushed, he didn’t trust that Mary wouldn’t do as instructed. He also didn’t trust that Irene wouldn’t do it herself. She might also be armed although he hadn’t seen a gun on her yet. He played along, made his voice cold, tried to act hard-hearted. It looked like he might have succeeded, but Mycroft had to go ask him why. He walked into Anthea’s office, unable to look the man in the face any more. Despite the possibility that he could make things up with Mycroft later, if they survived, the pain he was causing now was...hard. It hurt to do it. Lesser of two evils was right, but they had to get out of this alive first. All else was unimportant, a means to an end. He was aware that Mary had partially followed him, her face a mask. When he heard Irene order her to shoot him, Greg turned, watched as mary brought the weapon up. “Remember,” he murmured. “Please...whatever you do, just protect him?” Mary gave nothing away, but it was obvious that Irene could still see her, could still note her reactions. Resigned to it, Greg’s regret was that his last words to Mycroft had been hurtful. Ultimately, he had been doing his best to save the man more pain, but still. He could only hope that Mycroft would come to learn that Greg’s intentions had been for the best of reasons. 

He heard Mycroft give in, and it broke his heart. After all that the man had been told, he still loved Greg enough to capitulate to protect him. There was a quiet moment, and then he went cold as he heard Irene repeat her order. Grimly, Greg watched as Mary raised the gun again. 


	21. Of Meissen Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle ensues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you may spot the x-overs...

“You are not stopping me from helping, young man!” Martha Hudson said, adamant that nobody was about to get the better of either of her charges. John had joined them quickly, having located Anderson in Conservation Lab 2, and he was hard pressed to stop her. 

“Mrs Hudson,” John said, urgently, “we do not have time to argue.”

“Good,” Sherlock muttered. “Then it’s settled. Let’s go…”

“You can count me in too,” said a voice from the doorway. Everyone looked at Anderson who was standing in the doorway, armed with a fire extinguisher. “What? CO2 is an effective deterrent,” he said. “And these things pack a punch,” he added. “Besides, you might need someone responsible to hand the Venus over to, as nobody here seems capable…”

“Shut up, Anderson!” Chorused three voices. 

“Right, well, you two can stay right here,” John said firmly. “No! Please, hear me out,” he added, overriding the protestations. “Sherlock and I are going to head off to Mycroft’s office, while Mrs Hudson calls the police, which should give us around five minutes to get into place, and then she’ll hit the fire alarms. Anderson, stay here and protect Mrs Hudson, okay? Make sure the coast is clear. If you see anyone you don’t recognise, give em a blast.” John glanced up and alarm lit his features. “Mrs Hudson, where in the Hell did you get that gun?” 

“This? It belonged to my husband,” she said, offhandedly, regarding the Glock in her hand. “Well, sometimes I feel the need of protection, an old lady like me, walking home on a dark night…” She grinned at them.

“Hudders, you sly fox…” Sherlock grinned back, took the gun from her and checked it, springing the magazine and checking the bullets. “Full. You don’t have any more about your person, do you? Only a former military man like John, I can imagine he feels a bit naked without a weapon in his hand…” 

“Just you be careful with that, Sherlock. I don’t want you getting hurt, your brother would never forgive me.” She reached into the drawer. “Here, I’m afraid this one isn’t real though. It’s only a lighter…”

“Here, give it over,” John said, hefting the—very good—replica. “It’ll fool anyone not close enough to check. I’d prefer the real one, though. I know _I_ can shoot…”

“Here, John. Take it,” Sherlock offered. “Give me the lighter. Apparently I prefer talking people to death anyway…” 

“Get on the pair of you,” Mrs Hudson muttered, exasperated, “or it’ll be too late. Go, save them both…” 

**0000000000**

Greg watched as Mary lifted the weapon and trained it on him. She took a half step forward, deliberately moving out of Irene’s line of sight. She calmly met his gaze with her own, and fired. The noise was deafening. Greg felt the air graze past him, hot on his skin. He shut his eyes and waited for the pain, but instead his eyes flew open again as he felt something strike behind his knees, toppling him in a graceless heap to the carpet instead. Mary stood over him for a moment, urgently motioning him to keep quiet and stay down. He could hardly hear anything, his ears were ringing, and he saw Mary move away toward the door again. He instinctively curled into a defensive ball, heard what he thought were urgent voices, although muffled—it was like listening through water—then feet were running, moving past him, a flurry of movement…. 

Sherlock and John were heading toward Mycroft’s office when they heard the bang. Barely sparing each other a glance, they sprinted forward to be met with Irene and Mary pelting full tilt out and away from them, headed for the stairs. John raised his gun and yelled “STOP! POLICE! STAND WHERE YOU ARE!” They ignored him, so he let off a shot into the ceiling, and leveled the gun at the fleeing figures. That had the desired effect. The women stopped and turned yards from the head of the stairs, Mary holding her gun above her head.

Sherlock had dashed into Mycroft’s office, half expecting to find his brother on the floor, only to find Greg instead.

“Oh, shit! John!”

“What? I’m a little busy. You found your brother?” John added.

“I don’t know where he is…” Sherlock sounded desperate. 

“Well, find him!” John turned back to the women. “You two, get back here. Now. Drop your weapon or I will shoot.”

“John!”

“What!”

“Lestrade is down...I need you…” The momentary distraction took John’s attention off the stairs for a moment, in time for a large man brandishing his own gun to appear at the top of the stairs and aim it right at him. 

John registered movement and was in the process of getting off a shot as well as diving out of the way, just as the man loosed off a couple of shots of his own, enough cover for the women to get away down the stairs behind him. It left John out in the open, with no cover. The next few seconds seemed to slow down. John registered a blood curdling yell, and a flying figure dashed in from the left with a flash of red and a cloud of... steam? Gas? There were a couple more shots, splintering off the walls and the woodwork above him, a cry, and a hefty clunk, then a thud. When the dust settled, John looked up to see Anderson, standing over the prone body of the gunman, the CO2 extinguisher still in his hand. 

“Did you just…?” John managed to ask.

Anderson nodded, panting. “Might have known you wouldn’t be able to handle things on your own,” he said with a sniff. “Besides, you’re not the only one with military experience, you know?”

“Phil, you were in the TAs…”

“So?”

“For less than six weeks?”

“Yes, well, better than nothing, under the circumstances. Looks like I’m one up on you anyway.” A hand reached to help him up and John grasped it gratefully.

“Yeah, well, he got the drop on me.”

“I’ll get something to tie him up, you go...deal with…” Phil cast a worried glance toward Anthea’s office. 

“Right,” John said. Just as he turned to go into the room, the fire alarm went off. “Bloody Hell, timing!” he muttered, and ran in to find Sherlock on the floor next to Greg. John started toward them but Mycroft suddenly appeared at his office door, took one look at the scene before him, and his legs buckled from under him. John was just about fast enough to catch him before he hit the ground too hard. 

“Thank God,” he thought he heard Sherlock say. 

“Sherlock, what?” Sirens sounded in the distance, and the alarms made things difficult to hear. He was too busy checking Mycroft’s vitals, but the man was in a dead faint. 

**0000000000**

Time stopped for Mycroft when he heard the bang of the gun, too loud in the enclosed space. Then Mary was grabbing Irene and pulling her away, shouting about the noise having alerted the police, and needing to move now. He stood rooted to the spot, ears ringing, shock draining colour from his face, shortening his breath to gasps… He couldn’t move, couldn’t make himself go to the door, knowing what he would find. There was no way she could have missed at such close range… There would be blood… Greg’s blood… Trembling, he forced himself forward. He could hear shouting, another shot, two… Half afraid, half not caring, he moved one step at a time to the door, in time to see John come rushing through from the corridor beyond, and his brother crouching on the floor beside the fallen body of his lover. Dizziness swept over him, and Mycroft felt his legs give out, but did not register John grabbing him and slowing his descent to the floor.

**0000000000**

“So, Mr Holmes, let me get this straight, a woman who doesn’t exist masterminded a heist on the Sherrinford to steal a small Roman statue of Venus…” Detective Inspector Hathaway of Thames Valley Police stared disbelievingly at the man in front of him.

“A gold statue, yes. From the British Museum…” Sherlock reminded him. 

“Yes, a _gold_ statue…”

“From the British Museum.”

“Right, to fund her retirement to a foreign country, possibly Brazil, with her lover…”

“Who used to be a member of the Russian Mafia, yes. Do keep up, Hathaway…”

“Jesus, is it any wonder we don’t allow you near crime scenes?” 

Sherlock gave an annoyed huff. “I can see you’ve been speaking to Dimmock…” he began but was interrupted by a voice from behind them.

“Detective Inspector Hathaway?”

“And who might you be, sir?” A man was approaching them with an easy confident stride, suited in charcoal grey pinstripe and carrying an umbrella. 

“Bill Tanner, sir. MI6.”

“Pardon?” Hathaway inspected the ID handed to him and raised his eyebrows. “Please, don’t tell me all this is true?”

“I think we need to talk, sir, if you don’t mind? We’re taking over this crime scene as of now. With your cooperation, of course. One of the people involved is on our wanted list. A matter of National Security.” He nodded to Sherlock. “Mr Holmes, sir. I shall of course have a chat to you in due course. Gareth Mallory sends his regards and asks that you pass his on to your father.” Sherlock gave him an answering nod. “Now, if you would talk me through the details, Inspector…?”

Sherlock smirked and waved Hathaway off, then turned to where John stood beside one of two ambulances that sat in attendance on the tarmac. Greg was sitting on the back step, a blanket around his shoulders. 

“Why do they give you one of these?” He twitched at the appalling shade of orange. 

“It’s for shock.”

“But I’m fine, I’m not in shock…”

“Obviously the blanket is working then,” Sherlock quipped. 

“Where’s Myc?”

“In the other ambulance.” 

“Is he okay?”

“Yes, he just fainted. Hypertension, that’s all,” John said. “Probably brought on by the stress of the situation.”

Greg chewed his lip. “God, what a mess… She m.m.made me tell him…” Greg’s eyes were haunted as he looked at John. “I thought I’d been...shot…”

“Tell him what?” John asked gently. “What did she make you do, Greg?”

“Lies, John. She wanted me to make him believe I was working for them, like you said, Sherlock…otherwise...she said she’d make sure he suffered...She would have shot him...”

“What, and you convinced him?” Sherlock was sceptical. “How? You’re not that good an actor…” He stopped speaking when Greg’s expression crumpled and put his face in his hands and started to weep. “John?” Sherlock said helplessly.

“Be gentle, Sherlock.” He lowered his voice. “Greg’s mental state is a bit unstable at the moment. Look, just stay with him, won’t you? Don’t let him out of your sight. I’m going to speak to your brother.”

“John, what do I do?” Sherlock looked trapped and out of his depth.

“I dunno, do what human beings do, Sherlock, comfort the man…”

Mycroft surfaced to the bright lights in the back of the ambulance. He couldn’t focus. He remembered seeing Greg lying on the floor… _Oh, My God! Mary...gunfire…Sherlock? Did I see Sherlock? Was Sherlock here? Oh, Gregory…_

“Mycroft, Mycroft, it’s okay, you’re safe. Do you know where you are?” The voice of John Watson, dependable and safe, reached his ears. He felt a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

“Oh, John…” Mycroft momentarily hated the fact that anybody had seen him like this; vulnerable, in an ambulance… “Gregory...I s.s.saw…”

“Greg is okay, Mycroft,” John reassured. He watched Holmes’ eyes fly open at that statement. “He’s fine. He…”

“What? Don’t lie to me, John! I know what happened… That woman...shot him…”

“No, she didn’t, Mycroft, she only pretended to. Turns out she was double crossing Adler and came out on Greg’s side. Had to make it look real though. So relax…”

“Don’t!” Mycroft spat, angrily. “Don’t tell me to relax, John! Everybody is telling lies. What the Holy Fuck is real right now?” Coming from Mycroft, the swearing sounded wrong. “I want to see him, John. I need to see Gregory…” 

“Hey, hey, easy there. Come on, calm down or the nice man there might have to give you something to sedate you. It’s fine, Mycroft. You can see him when they’ve finished checking him over. Everything will be sorted soon as we can make sense of what happened. Now I’m not psychic as I told Sherlock only this evening. So can you talk me through what happened, hm? Your own words, in your own time, yeah?”

It took some time for the two men to unravel what had gone down. MI6 had been alerted by Mr Holmes Senior. They had dispatched people to investigate, and Tanner had brought his team, but had arrived really too late to be effective. They were fully prepared to take over the investigation though. By the time the police arrived, Mrs Hudson had spirited the firearms away, the lighter back into her desk drawer, the gun in question into the Museum’s armory. Mrs Hudson had a surprising array of keys, and the shop store rooms had altered so many times over the years she had kept a copy of pretty much every key to every door in the place. “I knew one day they would come in useful…” she had said cheerfully. The gun could be dealt with later, she had assured. There were bigger things to take care of. 

Sherlock disappeared into the guards’ lodge by the front entrance of the Museum, accompanying one of the guards who had appeared on the scene very quickly on hearing shots, despite there being nothing they could achieve beyond alerting the police, which they had done as a matter of course. Sure enough, the car park cctv feed had been disrupted, the screen blank, as had the one in the staff corridor. 

“It was noted, sir. However they were clever in their choice of eight o’clock. That’s change over of shifts, sir. Looks like someone noted the screens going off but hand over takes place at eight, so by the time the new shift was on, well, it was all over, sir. We heard the shots and came to investigate…”

“How did you hear that from here?”

“Some of the cctv have microphones, so we can record sound. Usually we turn them off during the day, but when the screen fails we check in case we can hear noise as a backup. The one in the staff corridor has a mic, although the one outside doesn’t. Too much extraneous noise for it to be useful. In this case, when we turned the volume on, we got the sound of gunfire.”

“Yes, well, they had a man on the inside, one of the volunteer staff. Doubtless he would have known where the cameras were and also what time your shift changed. After all, I don’t suppose it’s much of a secret.”

“Sorry, sir. Monitors do go off accidentally. If we called the police for every single one… Besides, they don’t appreciate being called out because our server’s gone down either. The new shift would have checked the camera, but they also need to check if there’s been a computer problem first. However, I think we may have found something.” The guard paused, leaned over and brought up another feed. “If we backtrack this external one...There. This is the street view to the west. See that merc, on the other side of the road? He’s on the road that passes the car park gate. Watch him, he pulls out about ten past eight, going north, and…” there was a pause while he fast forwarded to around half a minute. “Right… there. Same car, going to other way. He’s turned around, heading south, and he’s pulling away a bit quickly there. More people in the car too. He’s obviously stopped to pick people us, can’t have been further than the back gate, so that might be your man.” He froze the playback. The back of the mercedes showed a complete number plate. “Gimme a mo and I’ll print that off.” 

“So, firearms were discharged,” Bill Tanner said to Sherlock a little later, examining the corridor ceiling with his torch. “From the hostiles, I am presuming? It would be impossible for either of you, as civilians, to own a firearm?” 

“Impossible, Mr Tanner,” Sherlock agreed and the two men shared a meaningful glance. “Unless you count a fire extinguisher, wielded very effectively under the circumstances by the Head of the Museum’s conservation department.”

“While there might be irony there somewhere, Mr Holmes, I do not believe fire extinguishers are currently on the list of prohibited weapons. Certainly no conceal and carry there.” He smiled, wolflike, and walked into Anthea’s office. Sherlock followed. 

“I believe at least two of the group were armed, although I believe Irene Adler was not,” Sherlock added. “John was still out in the corridor when he was shot at by the man Mr Anderson managed to knock out with the fire extinguisher, although we do know there was a fourth man with them earlier, and another who was part of the group whom we did not see, namely Milverton. I believe Mr Lestrade informed us a man named Culverton Smith, a professor at the university, was present, but he had vacated the area by the time Dr Watson and myself arrived. If there were any others acting as guards, they made themselves scarce. In short, we know of Irene Adler, and a woman giving her name as Mary Morstan, plus Culverton Smith, Milverton, and the man we captured. One of my homeless informants is on the take from Smith, but beyond that, I do not know how far her involvement goes. I also doubt that I ever had her real name, or that she will be around from now on. That’s all I can give you, really.” 

“It’ll be enough, thank you, sir. Coupled with the cctv image, I think we have enough to track them, and we’ll do our best to head them off at the pass, as it were.”

“I’m sure you will. May I ask… You’ll be watching the airports, docks, private landing strips?”

“All modes of ingress and egress, sir, although personally…” Bill paused. “I doubt we’ll be successful…They’ll be travelling light, they have a head start, may well head to a strip close by, private charter flight...” He shrugged. “We shall of course put the word out with Interpol, but extradition proceedings can take years, assuming we locate them, that is.”

“Well, one never knows…”

“No, sir, one does not.”

“Concerning my brother, Mr Tanner… The British Museum?”

“Ah, the theft of the Venus… We will, of course, be preparing a complete police report. Your brother has undergone a traumatic experience, and was under duress. We’ll gather his statement as soon as is possible, and together with yours and Dr Watson’s…”

“And Mr lestrade’s.”

“And Mr Lestrade’s, yes. I think this should prove to be an open and shut case. Barring any glaring anomalies, of course. As such, I’m sure there is no cause for concern. The police do not advise heroics when in such a situation, sir. I am sure the British Museum will understand. The object was insured, of course.”

“Of course. I shall inform him of this course of action. It might help alleviate any sense of...guilt.”

“Please do. Thank you for your time, sir.” 

“So, we’re in the clear?” John asked.

“As far as possible. Father’s influence goes a long way. Besides, you only discharged one bullet and that was into the ceiling.”

“You’re forgetting the one I fired at the gunman.”

“Semantics. Still illegal whether you fire one bullet or many.”

“Self defence?” John suggested.

“Still a handgun. Still, nobody was shot by you anyway. Did it feel good?”

“God, yes.”

“I suppose the shame is that they’re probably long gone by now. The venus is lost to us, which will be a stain on Mycroft’s honour…”

“Sherlock, he’s not a regency heroine.”

“Well, he did swoon spectacularly.”

“You are a bad man, Sherlock. A bad, bad man…”

“Mr Tanner also informed me that as long as our statements back each other up, Mycroft will most likely be in the clear. Under duress, etc, etc, the police don’t advise heroics, yada, yada. He’s off the hook.”

“Not in his eyes.”

“No, well, my brother was nothing if not stubborn where responsibility was concerned.”

“Was?”

“Point.” Sherlock sighed. “Lestrade, however, is another matter.” 

“Yeah, I know. Mycroft is a bit…”

“More than a bit, in this case, I think. He’ll blame himself, and his feelings for Lestrade, and everything he can bloody well think of…”

“Sherlock, we have to let them work it out.”

“But…”

“No buts. Give them time before you wade in. Let them work it out.”

Sherlock looked rebellious for a moment, but capitulated when John leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Come on, you. Let’s go see what we can do to help clean things up.”

**00000000000**

Mycroft’s thoughts were in turmoil. They insisted he spend the night in hospital under observation, because of his blasted fainting fit. The ambulance had set off before he had been able to verify that Greg was actually unhurt. He spent an uncomfortable two hours in A&E being poked and prodded and questioned repeatedly. _Of all the ignominious endings… Have you fainted before, Mr Holmes? Do you know of any history of heart problems in your family, Mr Holmes?_ It made him want to scream and run away in the opposite direction. He was frankly sick of it. They insisted on an ECG, grip tests, bloods, blood pressure… The list went on. He had even been accompanied to the hospital by a police constable, like a common criminal… When finally they told him he was free to go it was nearly two in the morning. Stubbornly, he told them he felt sick, and had no way of getting home. They allowed him to stay the rest of the night. 

He had no idea what to feel about what Greg had said and done…. He didn’t understand what had happened. _How had he not been shot? John had tried to tell him that Mary faked it… but he had been lying on the floor_ … _he had looked dead_. 

Giving it up as a bad job, he finally fell asleep, exhaustion pulling him under despite someone moaning in the bed in the corner and someone else retching behind the curtains around the bed. 

**0000000000**

Greg was saved from hospital by the plain fact of not being physically hurt, and was released by the paramedics with the injunction to go home, get some rest, and to call his GP in the morning, but it was clear he was far from alright.

“Greg?”

“John.”

“How do you feel?”

“Crap, honestly. Where’s Mycroft?”

“Hospital. He passed out, so they’ve played safe and got him under obs. He’ll be fine. So...you going home?”

“Not sure…” Greg ran his hands through his hair, leaving messy spikes in their wake. “Dunno where my keys are, or my phone, or wallet… Mary kidnapped me, I’ve been kept in an unknown location for the last forty eight hours and I have no idea where my stuff is…” He felt completely lost. “I hurt him, John.”

“Hey, none of that right now. He’ll recover. Come on home with me, mate,” John offered. “You can use the shower, and you can have the spare bed for a couple of nights. I’ve got track pants and a t-shirt you can borrow. Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Everything done here?”

“Yes, I think so. Security will clear things here, and both Anderson and Mrs Hudson have gone home.”

“Come on then, let’s get a cab to mine, call out for food…”

“I shall order online, it’ll be there by the time we arrive.”

“How long do you think the journey to my flat takes?”

“Thirty two minutes and twenty seconds, given a prevailing wind and no roadworks…”

“I can’t believe you know so precisely… No, hang on, yes I can. Knowing you, you also know which take-away businesses will be able to deliver in a half hour…”

“Forty minutes, John. We still have to flag down a cab…” 


	22. Tying Up Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

When the morning nursing shift came in with tea and toast, Mycroft was more than ready to leave. Dressing in yesterday’s clothes felt awful. He felt in need of a shower, but he was so tired. John had reassured him that Greg was fine but so many lies had been swimming around he had no idea what was real and what was not. He was unprepared therefore to find his brother at the door with an overnight bag just as he was about to leave and call a taxi to take him home. 

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock. What are you doing here?”

“Doing, apparently, what brothers are supposed to do. I brought you fresh clothes,” he said, gesturing with the bag. “Collecting a sibling from hospital is on the list of things siblings regularly do for each other. It encourages feelings of mutual respect and trust such as those normally found between family members.”

“And you acquired this definition from where, exactly?”

“John.”

“Ah. Understood. The John Watson School of Normative Studies.” He smiled. “Has a certain ring to it. Am I to expect the loss of my Anthropology Curator in favour of a career in motivational speaking?”

“I very much doubt that,” Sherlock said with a wry smile. “However, I am also supposed to ask how you are feeling and John has warned me that if I do not bring home a suitable answer I am given to understand that I should not expect the usual...conjugal element of our relationship?”

Mycroft tried to keep himself from smiling at the honesty in those words. He nearly undid himself by glancing up at his younger brother but mastered the desire to smile and studied him more closely. Sherlock actually seemed to be genuine about wanting to know. “I regret,” Mycroft began with care, “I am not feeling my best right at this moment.” He stared into the middle distance, unfocused, and drew a deep breath. “We lost, did we not?”

“Lost?” For a moment, Sherlock was nonplussed. “Oh. Yes, I see. Well, that depends upon your viewpoint. Yes, they escaped, and yes, they took the Venus, but...we are all alive.”

“About that, Sherlock. What exactly happened? How is Gregory alive?” Mycroft’s question opened the floodgates, and he then had to sit through the next twenty minutes of Sherlock explaining the events of the previous night, including Philip Anderson’s heroic action with the fire extinguisher, Mary’s personal agenda, and Mrs Hudson’s fearless summoning of the local constabulary, not to mention setting the fire alarms off for good measure. When Sherlock ran out of steam, Mycroft sat quietly, digesting the information. 

“So…” he began, “Irene forced Gregory to lie?”

“She wanted you to suffer, Mycroft. He lied to stop her physically hurting you. Had to make it sound convincing. She threatened to put you in a wheelchair, permanently. He is...quite distressed.” 

Mycroft’s stomach twisted. “She would have had both of us if she could.”

“Why didn’t she? Why not summon me as well?”

“Time, perhaps, or lack of it. After all, the Venus was the goal, and we were collateral damage. They had a schedule to keep in order to leave the country before they were caught.”

“Makes sense. Events conspired to lead her to the Headmistress’ position, she just employed opportunities as they arose…The opportunity to attack me was denied her so she took it out on you. I...I am sorry for that, Mycroft.”

That made Mycroft pause. His heart constricted in his chest. Sherlock was being one hundred percent truthful. Not trusting his voice, and admitting he was not sure what to say anyway, Mycroft reached out. He entwined his fingers with those of his brother, then squeezed gently. Sherlock looked at their joined hands, then almost hurriedly disengaged himself from his brother’s grasp, but not before squeezing back first. Mycroft allowed himself a tired smile. “Do we know anymore?” he asked, reaching for the bag to see what clothing his brother had chosen.

“Not much. Bill Tanner and his team from MI6 are now handling the investigation. Apparently, Freeborn never divulged any personal information to anyone at the school. Our man Tanner updated me that it looks like she had falsified documents for her qualifications, and owned several passports too. MI6 located her apartment, some cottage in Wilsmancote…”

“Wilsmancote? That’s miles from Ashton Parva…”

“Deliberate, it would seem. It was comfortable, all the necessities to live, but nothing much beyond that. A means to an end. She does not look to have been expecting to stay too long. Tanner shared that they found old documents, probably those she felt she did not require, left behind. There are no photos, nothing substantial, no record of anything too personal.” Sherlock watched as his brother shrugged on a clean shirt and fastened the buttons carefully. “No surprise that the university in question has no record of her attendance, although her graduation certificate looks very genuine.”

“No surprise at all,” Mycroft agreed. “What have they done concerning the school?”

Sherlock frowned. “The School?”

“Where she and Greg and Mary taught, yes, the school.”

“I have no idea.”

“Doubtless they will want to know why three teachers have gone missing.”

“With the current levels of stress in the profession I doubt anyone has even noticed their absence. It probably registers as normal to have three colleagues off sick…”

They drove home in Sherlock’s borrowed car. “This is Gregory’s,” Mycroft said, getting in. 

“He allowed me to borrow it. There were spare keys in his flat.”

“You broke into his flat again.”

“Necessity. He wanted his clothing.”

“How is he?”

“Distressed, as I said. The stress has affected his PTSD, John tells me. He might have to take some time off work.”

“I feel...terribly responsible.”

“Mycroft, you know what you keep saying concerning coincidence?”

“The Universe is rarely so lazy?”

“Yes, that. There are always people weaving their webs, casting the dice, making their plans, and pulling them off. Sufficient number that coincidence seems more and more unlikely the more people make plans, the more dice get cast.”

“Dice are random.”

“Probability, Mycroft, not random. Probability is mathematics, nothing less. The Universe is structured on mathematics, not chaos, as some prefer to believe. Therefore your argument is invalid.” 

“I did not make an argument, Sherlock.” Mycroft could feel a headache coming on. 

“You did. You said dice were random, and that you were feeling, and I quote, “terribly responsible”.”

Mycroft sighed. “I _am_ responsible, Sherlock.”

“No, you are not, at least not for everything. Look, Mycroft, events conspired to cause decisions to be made that may...that _you_ may consider regrettable, and you are responsible for your decisions, but you are not responsible for the chain of events, nor for Greg’s decisions. He made those based on how he feels about you, as you made choices based on your feelings for him. _Sentiment,_ ” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Caring is not an advantage, you were right about that.”

“No, indeed.”

“However, I find life is infinitely more boring when one does not care. John is in my life now, and I care a great deal for him and suddenly, my life is not so...boring, as it was before. John is my conductor of light. I highly recommend it. Gregory is....good for you, despite the brain power of the proverbial goldfish. You have been altogether more agreeable since you got together…”

“Sherlock…”

“Besides, he is...a man, and good at it...”

“Sherlock…”

“What?”

“Can we go home now?”

“Where do you want to go?” Sherlock revved the engine and drove out through the hospital gates and turned left, back to Ashton Magna. The morning traffic was sluggish, and the day was warm. 

“Home, as I suggested.”

“Are you sure?” 

Mycroft rolled his head to glance at his brother, wondering what was on his mind. “Where else, Sherlock? I do not have anywhere else to go.”

“I just thought…”

“You thought what, brother?” Mycroft sighed. Despite the progress Sherlock was making, at times getting information from him still felt like pulling teeth.

Sherlock sighed too, and pulled up for a red light. “Gregory is staying with John.”

“Oh?” 

“Yes. John is taking care of him.”

“Does he need someone to take care of him? I thought he was unharmed.”

“Unharmed, yes, but…”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock, spit it out. Is he or is he not hurt?”

“Physically, no, but…”

“Oh.” Mycroft knew that Gregory suffered PTSD. _Had the stress triggered an attack?_ “Is John capable of caring for him?”

“Ex-army trauma surgeon,” Sherlock murmured. “Ishould think so. He’s seen plenty of Post Traumatic Stress cases. He says with the correct medication, Greg will be fine. He probably needs counselling but he’s not hearing voices or having flashbacks, although he’s had a bad dream or two. He won’t be going back to school for a while though.”

“I do want to see him. It is whether he wants to see me.”

“He was asking about you, this morning. John thinks I should keep out of it all, leave you two to work things out by yourselves, but…”

“But?”

“I do care about you, brother. You’ve always been there for me, I just wanted to return the favour. I know I can be...and have been...an ass about some things, but...this is important. I also feel responsible. I brought this to your door, the information concerning the heist, after all.”

“You were merely the messenger, Sherlock.” 

“Yes, well…I do not think either you or Gregory should feel...guilty, concerning each other. You each did the honourable thing, in the end. You made decisions based upon sentiment rather than cold hard logic, but I suppose the painful truth is that we can’t all be perfect…”

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock with a scandalised expression that turned to a wry smile. Sherlock grinned. 

“Take me home, Sherlock. I need a shower, and to contact Anthea. I will need to sort things out at work. After all, we have a new exhibition opening at the weekend, with no Abbotsfield Venus to display. Press releases will need to be changed, damage control will need to be enacted upon.”

“Tanner wanted me to let you know, he feels, subject to your statement of course, that there will be no case to answer concerning the British Museum. He says they will inform the museum concerning the loss. Father called this morning, but I was on my way and couldn’t talk to him. The message he left was positive. Insurance will cover everything. No loss of prestige...etc, etc.”

“In spite of that, it will still haunt me. I shall probably be known forever as the one who let the Venus get away…”

“That depends on what MI6 have concocted with regard to what happened.”

“Yes, I rather suspect it does.”

**00000000000**

Home was empty. Silent. Peaceful but not...soothing. He wanted company. Very specific company. Eventually, after a hot shower, and a meal pulled from the freezer and tossed into the microwave, Mycroft began to feel more human. He dreaded calling work though. Finally, he mastered the urge to run away and picked up the phone.

“Anthea,” he said, but was all of a sudden swamped with questions. 

“Sir, are you alright, sir? Mrs Hudson and Philip Anderson were on my doorstep this morning, caught me before anyone else arrived, filled me in with what happened last night. Sounds as though it was dreadful. Are you alright?”

“I...yes, Anthea. I am...perhaps not fine, but I am on a more even keel, shall we say. What did they tell you?” He listened for a while as she reiterated what had been said. They had told her word for word. Nobody seemed to be aware of what had happened in his office, just that he had been forced to give up the figurine in exchange for his life and that of Greg Lestrade. 

“Anderson told me what happened, that they shot at you, and John…”

“Did he also reiterate his own heroic part in it all?”

“A little. He was...extraordinarily modest, actually.” She sounded doubtful.

“He did save John Watson’s life, so far as I can understand it. I did not see that part of the proceedings, however. Has anyone from the police been in touch?”

“Oh, DI Hathaway visited. He says he’ll be in touch soon, concerning the release of the incident to the press. They need your statement, but beyond that, there is no sign of the gang, or of the Venus. I’m sorry, sir. They think a plane took off from a local abandoned airfield about a half hour after the theft, and they think the gang were on board. A farmer saw it flying low over his property around nine thirty. It looks to have been a small light aircraft. Possibly a hop to a larger airport.”

“Most likely long gone by now.”

“Yes, sir. Will you be coming in this afternoon, sir?”

“I did not intend to. Why?”

“Only a few emails concerning the exhibition opening. A package was left for you this morning, it came by courier, and there are a couple of magazine coverage queries. I can deal with them, or ask Marketing.”

“Deal with the queries, leave the package on my desk, and ask Marketing to handle any articles, but are they apprised of the situation? I do need to operate damage control. There’s nothing they can do until after this breaks. Tell them to hold off with everything until we know more. We need to weather that storm first.”

Mycroft retreated to his study and sat at his computer, feeling a little divorced from the events of the past 48 hours. He had an email from Bill Tanner with an attached press release draft for his perusal. It kept to the facts, kept the details of his and Gregory’s involvement out of it, and stated that an armed gang had broken into the staff area with help from an insider, a museum volunteer by the name of Francis Culverton Smith, ex- of Sherrinford University History Department. Currently a wanted man, etc, etc, the public should be on the lookout but should not approach, etc, etc. They had forced the safe and taken a single artefact, a gold figurine known as the Abbottsfield Venus, dating from the Roman period and found near Abbottsfield, five miles from Ashton Parva. Security had disturbed them and the gang had fled, firing shots on the way, but nobody was hurt. Head of Conservation, Mr Philip Anderson, aged 39, who had been working late at the museum ahead of the new exhibition in which the Abbottsfield Venus was due to play a prominent role, had valiantly attempted to stop them with the use of a fire extinguisher, knocking one of the gunmen unconscious. There was the usual warning that the police believed that five of the gang remained at large and gave a number for the public to call if they had any information. It went on to list the gang by name, including Charles Milverton but leaving Mary’s and Irene’s names out of it all. 

Mycroft did not know how he felt about it all. _Ambivalent, if truth be known,_ he thought. It was all rather too much to cope with. He could not order his thoughts around everything he and Greg had been subjected to. He poured himself a whisky, his favourite Macallen, and took it out onto the terrace behind the house. The warm silence of the summer evening was soothing, so he sat on one of the bistro chairs and tried to relax. 

_I am not my brother,_ he thought. _I am not the clever one, with the fearless analytical mind._ Where his brother would see this situation clearly, _I am clouded with emotion…_ Despite his brother’s self-destructive tendencies, his insecure genius, sharp-tongue and marked lack of people skills, Mycroft could still envy him his intellect. He was not as clever as his brother. He was the sensitive one, as his mother had always labelled him. Always hurt more deeply, always quick to bottle the pain away, to hide behind a mask of indifference. _Politics would have destroyed me,_ he thought, _father was right, although this..._ he could not shake the feelings that Gregory’s words had evoked. Despite knowing why he was doing it, despite knowing deep down that it was designed to protect… It was warped, and wrong, and for a few hateful hours he had believed it to be true, had not been able to see it for the lie that it was. 

_Why am I not more upset about the Venus? Surely I should be more upset than this?_ He was not. He would gladly have given up everything to protect Greg, and that shocked him. Scared him even. That in so short a time he was invested in both loving and protecting the man he hadn’t even known existed a scan few weeks ago was baffling. He felt battered by the speed of events, by the ferocity of his feelings...

**00000000000**

Greg slept well, considering. He was awake at six, but John had beaten him to it, and the smell of coffee and bacon was almost overwhelming. 

“Here you go, mate,” he said when a disheveled Greg appeared in the kitchen. A plate was slid his way with toast, bacon, scrambled eggs and beans, closely followed by a mug of coffee. 

“Ah, John. Thank you, this looks...amazing.”

“How are you?”

“All things considered, not too bad. Yourself? Recovered from being shot at?”

John smiled. “Does it sound wrong to say I may have missed it, the adrenalin?”

“There speaks the ex-soldier.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“I work with one. James Sholto. He...what?”

“Sholto? Tall bloke, blue eyes? Served in Afghanistan?” Greg nodded. “Bloody hell, small world. He was commanding officer when I was there. Invalided out about a year before me.” 

“Talking of small worlds… Do you come from around here?”

“Not far away actually.”

“Your dad didn’t used to be a teacher, did he?”

“No, why?”

“Oh, just...when I was a kid, I had this history teacher, Mr Watson, and he was...a bit of a surrogate father to me. The reason I went into the police, really. When I had to leave, I think I retrained as a teacher because of him too. He died some years ago, and his son wrote to me to tell me.”

“Was his name Brian by any chance?”

“Never sure I knew his first name.”

“I had an uncle Brian, he was a teacher. Died about four years ago I think. His son is Ben, my cousin. Don’t see him much but...if you like I can ask.” 

Greg smiled. “Yeah, thanks. I’d like to find out. Where’s himself this morning anyway?”

“Already gone. He was off to borrow your car. You did tell him he could borrow it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, he asked last night. He said he could pick my lock and get into my flat for me. I’ve got spare keys in the back of the fridge for the flat and the car. He said he wanted to go pick Mycroft up from hospital today. Told him he could borrow it if he brought me some clothes back with him, and if he cleared out my fridge as well. God knows what’s gone off in there.”

“Greg…”

“Hm?”

“You and Mycroft, you know you’re neither of you to blame for any of this, don’t you?”

“Don’t care, actually. I’ve thought about it all, and you know, I’d do the same again. If it meant making sure he was okay. I just...don’t want him thinking I really was involved. It hurt to tell him, specially when I realised I might die and my last words would have been…” He choked, cleared his throat, took a gulp of coffee. “That was my one regret, that we’d have parted on bad terms…”

“Well, you haven’t parted for good yet and nobody thinks you were really involved so you can relax. You and Mycroft should talk, when you’re ready.”

“Assuming he wants to.”

“Why wouldn’t he? After all, you did it with the best intentions.” Greg was silent long enough that John looked back at him with concern. “Greg?”

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You should go see your own doctor, you know. This was traumatic enough to potentially cause you problems with your post traumatic stress. You maybe should seek counselling…”

“I know. I… I don’t want to go through that again…”

“Through what again?”

“Rounds and rounds of being asked questions about how I feel and having some young twit who had no idea sit there and recite text books at me….”

“That’s not how counselling should go, Greg. When did this happen?”

“After I lost my wife…” Greg sighed.

“But you obviously responded to treatment?”

“Oh yeah, I did. Hated the counselling though. I wanted to put it all behind me and they wouldn’t let me. The guy acted like I was wasting his time when I wouldn’t ‘open up’ as he put it. Yet I would say things, tell him how I felt, but he didn’t offer me any solutions. It was like he was expecting me to find my own way out when what I needed was guidance.”

John nodded. “It’s about matching the right person to the right therapy,” he said, wisely. “Therapy, particularly talking therapies, can work, but you need the right approach. Finding that can be hard. Don’t let one bad experience put you off trying again.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll think about it,” Greg muttered. 

“So how come you chose teaching as a new career?” John asked. “I’ve heard it’s not the most...stress-free of careers.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “No, guess not, but kids, you know. I’ve always loved kids. Got a lot of time for ‘em. They make sense to me. And for me teaching couldn’t be as stressful as police work. Besides, I’ve kind of kept that bit of history quiet. The doctors assured me that I wasn’t a danger and that my treatment was successful, and...well, prospective employers are not allowed to discriminate against you on mental health grounds. Won’t say it doesn’t bother me, occasionally, that I might lose it again...but if I haven’t done so after this, maybe I won’t.”

“Well, this was something you could have done without.”

“It was something we could all have done without. MI6 found them yet?”

“Don’t think we’ve heard anything. Sherlock’s been out all morning, but he’s not texted. Mycroft...We’ll have to wait for Sherlock to tell us what’s happening there.”

**00000000000**

The phone rang. Mycroft answered it before he realised he had been intending to let it go to voicemail so he could screen the call, so he paused, listening.

“Mr Holmes?” Came the level tone. “Bill Tanner, sir. Have you had my email?”

“I have seen the one with your prospective press release. I see you have left a few names out of it.”

“No sense in making it more complicated than necessary. However, there have been...developments.”

“Developments?”

“Yes. I would like a face-to-face, if that’s possible, to discuss it with you. Would it be convenient for me to visit with you today? I do require your statement for the police report, and that of Mr Lestrade. I have had those of your brother and Dr Watson, and Mr Anderson’s we had this morning, along with that of Mrs Hudson.”

“I dare say today would be convenient, but...would it be possible to meet me at the Sherrinford? The exhibition opens on Saturday with or without the Venus, and I need to discuss the approach we need to make. If there have been developments we need to take into consideration it would be more convenient for me to find out what they are before I attend to the business of approaching the Press.”

“That is perfectly acceptable, Mr Holmes. I can come to the museum.”

“In that case, I shall make sure you are expected. Um...may I ask, do I require legal representation?” There was a pause.

“You are not under any suspicion, Mr Holmes. However, it may be a good idea for you to invite your brother and Mr Lestrade to attend, assuming you don’t mind the inconvenience.”

“Certainly not, but…”

“I shall see you this afternoon then. Would two o’clock be acceptable?”

“Certainly.”

“Two it is then. Goodbye for now.”

Mycroft was left staring at the phone. 

**00000000000**

“I just had a text…” Sherlock breezed through the door at lunchtime, tossed the keys to Greg and threw himself onto a chair. 

“And good afternoon to you too,” John grinned and went to put the kettle on.

“And this text?” Greg prompted when nothing was forthcoming.

“Text? Oh, yes, text. Apparently we are invited to the museum this afternoon for a meeting. Mr Tanner has something to tell us.” “Mr Tanner?”

“Bill Tanner, MI6.”

“Oh right, yeah. Him. So what did he want?” 

“Further developments, apparently…” 

“They’re probably going to tell us they missed the gang and they’ve managed to leave the country,” Greg said glumly.

“Well, much good it will do them. Extradition takes forever, assuming they even bother. Also assuming they find out where they went. At least they’ll be out of our hair...”

“Why would they not bother, Sherlock?” John asked, leaning against the kitchen door frame as he waited for the kettle to boil. “They’re criminals. Kidnapping and theft were crimes last time I looked.”

“Because, it’s her, isn’t it? She doesn’t exist. She is persona non grata with the Royals and Thames House. They will want to keep it off the radar, and anonymous. Oh, by the way,” he rummaged in his pockets and threw a worn leather wallet at Greg who caught it, clumsily. 

“What are...hey, this is mine.”

“On your mat when I opened your door this morning.”

“On my...what? How?”

“Somebody must have posted it through your letterbox. Your phone was there too. I left that behind though, battery was dead. The keys I just threw you, those are your master keys. I’ll let you off with not noticing. I left the others in your fridge.”

“Damn… there might be fingerprints…”

“Doubtful. Besides, fingerprints won’t tell us much that we don’t already know.”

John checked his watch. “Well, might as well get going then, people. Takes me a half hour to get to work at the best of times…”

**00000000000**

Mycroft managed to get to the Museum barely half an hour before the expected time of arrival for Tanner and his brother. He ignored everyone on his way up to his office, going in by the front door instead of the staff entrance. He wasn’t sure he could face that yet. Part of him was reluctant to go into his office, but some things had to be faced. He squared his shoulders and opened the door to Anthea’s office. He was quite unprepared for the delight on her face as she recognised who it was. 

“Mr Holmes, I wasn’t expecting you to be here today.”

“Unexpected appointment. A Mr Tanner will be arriving at two, as will Mr Lestrade and my brother. Tanner is attached to the Security Services, he has news for us concerning the...events of the previous few days. Would you call down to the front desk and advise them that the visitors are allowed straight up. Ask for someone from Security to escort him up. My brother and Mr Lestrade know the way, however, I am sure that security have altered the door codes after recent events…”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll make sure the appropriate arrangements are made. Would you like me to ask Mrs Hudson to supply afternoon tea for you all?”

“Yes, thank you. That would be most acceptable. Would you ask her to bring it up in about three quarters of an hour?” He stepped up to the door of his office and hesitated when she called his name. 

“Sorry, sir. I...I rather thought a change might be good…”

“Change?” he said, turning back.

“Yes, sir. Under the circumstances. I hope I wasn’t too presumptuous. I...the furniture...and the decor. It’s not really been changed since you arrived. I had Terry bring a few new items up to decorate the place. Brought a new painting or two. With the new exhibition coming up, you know. After all, a change is as good as a rest…”

 _Bless the woman,_ he thought. She had understood the implications of what had happened, and obviously decided to alter things so he wouldn’t be faced with returning to an office that reminded him of...those events. He opened the door, and smiled, gratefully. 

The desk was the same, and after all, all his things were in the drawers and they had a dearth of suitable desks in store so that was probably not such a surprise. It had, however, been placed slightly off to a new angle but was at the back of the office, still facing the door. A new painting, a landscape, sat on the hinges that allowed it to cover the safe. There was a new rug on the floor (how she had accomplished that in such a short time would remain a mystery), and she had contrived to make the area immediately inside the door a more informal place to relax; two chairs either side of a coffee table, and on the table a few artfully arranged copies of Archaeology Today and the Museums Journal, the Museum’s own guidebook and a book on the history of antiquities in China. 

Along the wall just inside the door to the right, where before there had been too much space, there was now a long narrow glass-topped table with six chairs, laid out with placemats, notepads, pens and a tray with water glasses and a covered carafe. There was a distinctly Scandinavian feel to the place, with a fifties vibe throughout; narrow furniture legs, smooth satiny wood, glass and tubular metal. Stylish but understated, his mind supplied. Terry had provided a few new things from the Decorative Arts collection to enhance the room. Gone were the intricate but overly flowery Meissen figurines, the washed-out blue of the Delftware platter, and the—in Mycroft’s opinion—overbearingly gilded splendour of the Royal Worcester vases. He missed the Chinese blue and white vase but he could cope with the change. 

The first item that met his gaze reminded him of his brother’s eyes; the pale aquamarine of a plain Chinese Temple Vase in celadon porcelain. Mycroft found himself looking at it contemplatively, meditatively. It was quite calming. A Peruvian stirrup vessel shaped like an owl was sitting on his desk, its burnished russet earthenware enhanced with white geometric lines. It brought a smile to his face simply looking at it. A fine Liberty silver vase with blue enamel roses by Archibald Knox sat in the simple display cabinet positioned behind the coffee table, accompanied a little eccentrically by a 16th Century silver communion cup. Mycroft found he appreciated the pairing. Things that could be admired, contemplated, meditated upon. He was struck by how little he had realised the staff had come to understand him in his short tenure as Director, or how much he was thought of. 

“I considered your needs for a conference area,” she said from behind him. “As luck would have it, Furbishing said they could fetch things up from the basement this morning…”

“It looks...thank you, Anthea. This is… above and beyond, seriously. I do appreciate your efforts, all of you, the rest of the staff included. I understand this cannot have been an easy thing to effect at such short notice. The result is...very pleasing to me.” He was rewarded by a pleased smile.

“Thank you, sir. I was going to make tea, would you care for some? Earl Grey?”

“A cup would be calming, yes, thank you.” He took his seat behind his desk with none of the trepidation he had expected to feel. Reaching out, he petted the owl as if it were a live thing, the cool smoothness of it under his fingers grounding him. Anthea deserved a bonus, he considered. In fact, so did the rest of his staff. He would, he decided, review finance and profits and look at booking a proper Christmas Dinner at one of the venues in town for the staff. Something with a good bar and a club, dancing into the early hours, and if not at Christmas, then New Year. He would have to see what he could do. _They deserve some recognition..._

A knock on the door made him pause in his efforts to answer his emails while he was waiting for his guests to arrive. Anthea came in with his tea, and passed him his mail, whereupon he was reminded of the package she had said had arrived.

“Oh yes, sir. Arrived this morning by courier. I’ll go and get it.” She disappeared out the door, but wasn’t gone more than a moment before she buzzed the intercom.

“Yes, Anthea?”

“Your guests are being shown up now, sir. Do you want me to bring them straight in?”

“Yes, thank you, Anthea. Ask them if they require refreshment first?”

“Certainly, sir,” she said, as if slightly affronted he would think she would forget. He smiled. Anthea took her duties rather seriously after all. 

He could not stay sitting, he realised, rising to his feet just as the door opened and Sherlock breezed through, obviously leading the way. He could hear Anthea’s voice through the door, welcoming, obviously taking coats as well as orders for tea and coffee. 

“Brother, how are you?”

“Not too dissimilar to how you found me this morning, Sherlock. I’m fine.” His brother was looking around the room.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said with a smile. “They do love you, don’t they?”

“Pardon me?” Mycroft affected not to notice. “Oh, the decor. Past due a change, in advance of the exhibition. Anthea’s doing, not mine,” he said, airily. “Now, do take a seat. I wonder shall we conviene around the table?” He looked up to see John behind Sherlock. “John, welcome.”

“My idea,” Sherlock said, “hope you don’t mind but after his involvement the other night…”

“Not at all,” Mycroft agreed. “John deserves to be here.” Mycroft’s attention was taken by the next person to arrive, and as blue eyes met dark brown, his mouth dried and he stalled in his eloquence. Gregory stood there, casually dressed in his grey linen suit against the warmth of the day, loafers on his feet and his hair tidied into some kind of order, despite a few unruly strands kicking off somewhere about his fringe, refusing to be subdued. He looked well rested, a very different person from the cold, impersonal and somewhat dishevelled character of the other night. There was an awkwardness between them though, which would not be settled here. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft managed. “It is...good to see you. You look...better.”

“You too, Mycroft,” Greg managed in return, voice gentle.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Well, gentlemen, do take a seat.” He turned as Anthea saw Bill Tanner through the door. “Mr Tanner, welcome. I was just saying, let us conviene around the table, there’s more room there.” He lead the way to the conference table and they all seated themselves. Anthea arrived with a tray and handed out their drinks, retrieving Mycroft’s tea from his desk and placing it carefully in front of him.

“Anything more I can get you, gentlemen?”

“I think that will be all for now, Anthea, thank you,” Mycroft said. 

“Very well. Mrs Hudson has instructions to serve afternoon tea in half an hour, sir. I’ll leave you to it.” She drifted out and closed the door. 

“Would that my assistant was so diligent,” Tanner murmured enviously. 

Mycroft smiled. “A very capable young woman,” he agreed. 

“Might steal her from you, if you’re not careful,” Tanner suggested, smiling. “So, gentlemen, you probably want to know why I’ve asked you all to be here.” He chuckled. “Despite sounding like a terribly second rate detective story, I do have a good reason. Several, in fact.” He opened the briefcase he was carrying and lifted out some files. “Of course we missed intercepting the plane that the gang took off in. They flew out of a local abandoned airfield, a farmer reported hearing the plane take off around nine thirty, which corresponds to the timings we had. Their vehicle, the same mercedes that was captured on your cctv system, was found abandoned on the field, in one of the outbuildings. By the description the plane was a light one, probably a single engine. We don’t think there was a flight plan.”

“Big surprise there,” Sherlock murmured.

“However,” Tanner continued, “they would require one to travel through controlled airspace, especially if they intended to land at a normal airport to change flights.”

“So what you’re saying is, you lost them,” John said, “but you don’t think that was the overseas leg of the flight?”

“Effectively, we never found them,” Tanner explained. “However, I believe I said there were...developments.”

“I do believe you did,” Sherlock drawled, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Do share,” he invited. “I’m sure we’re all agog…”

Tanner smiled grimly. “Yes, well, something flagged up on the alerts this morning, from Southwark Constabulary. Two bodies had been found on waste ground, an abandoned factory site south of the river. I wonder if you gentlemen would be able to identify them? I warn you, these photographs are distasteful, so please, feel free to decline. However if you can help us, a quick identification would be expedient to the investigation…” 

“I don’t mind,” John offered. “Ex-army surgeon too,” he offered, grinning. “Not likely to lose my breakfast, or pass out for that matter.” Tanner nodded, and passed him the file. 

“Pass them to me when you’re done, John,” Sherlock offered. 

On taking a look, John shuddered. “Whoever did this did not intend for these bodies to be identified readily, did they?” he commented. Greg itched to look but said nothing. Maybe discretion was the better part of valour. 

“That’s her,” Sherlock said, scrutinising the corpse in the photo. “Adler. It’s her.”

“How can you be so sure?” Tanner asked.

“Ring finger...manicured red nails….I think if you match her photos from the original investigation, you’ll find her earlobes are identical in shape and contours. Hairline is right, eyebrows...Have you done DNA on her teeth?”

“In process, although I fail to see what good that would do. She isn’t on any database…”

“That’s not strictly true…”

“Explain.”

“Her DNA is on file, one of the samples taken from the premises where her brothel was situated. It might not be pinned to her, but it’s still on record. Match the DNA from the corpse to one of those samples and you have a higher probability that the corpse lying there is actually her.”

Tanner nodded. “Good enough. Who else could it be, after all? So talk me through this, Sherlock. Apart from her ears, is there anything else?”

“Little finger, left hand, see? The one outstretched.” Tanner took a look. “That woman has a flare for the dramatic even in death.”

“I see, but what does that tell me?”

“It tells me that this is Adler, Freeborn, whatever her name is…”

“Sonia Yvonne Blaketon was her original given name,” john read out from the file. “She was born of a half-Hungarian father and a Welsh mother, in Brixton, 1982. She went under at least four aliases; Sylvia Freeborn, Irene Adler, Clare Jones and Katherine Harrington, and The Woman, on her business cards.”

“Yes, well, her left little finger was broken,” Sherlock added. “It was incorrectly healed, an injury from childhood, which is fairly unique, and as you see from exhibit A here,” Sherlock pointed to where the woman’s hand was flung out from her body, “her little finger, left hand, has at some point been broken and misaligned. I rest my case…” 

“Seems conclusive,” Tanner said, faintly impressed. “And the man?”

“That’s…” John paused. The ferocity of the attack had left little to be identified. “Unsure,” he added. “Looks like it could be Milverton. Same clothes, same hair, same height, roughly. I can’t be more specific.”

“Again the details,” Sherlock pointed out. “See by his collar?” Sherlock pointed to the tiny smudge of...something. “Tattoo,” he said. “Under his shirt collar but just noticeable. If the body exhibits a tattoo of a coiled serpent swallowing its tail, you have Milverton. He has another one as well, on his bicep, right side. An eagle. Ironically an American eagle, despite his Russian origins.” 

“How in God’s name did you know that?” John said. 

“The night of the reception here, I said I’d been tailing Milverton. I went to his gallery in Soho under the pretense of being a customer. He showed me into his office to discuss costs. To say the man was a narcissist was an understatement,” Sherlock explained. “Photos of himself everywhere. He had more than one where he was showing off doing some sport of other. Of course his tattoos were on prominent display; American Eagle on his right bicep, a coiled serpent on his left shoulder and up the back of his neck. That one was large, must have been at least a four inch diameter circle.” 

Tanner nodded. “The list of tattoos is here,” he said, leafing through the papers in the file. “Post mortem report, here we go…. Male, caucasian, six foot one, mid forties...etc, etc, Ah, here it is. Tattoo of an American Eagle, three quarter view, upper arm, right side, natural colours…” Tanner turned the paper, “and, on the back of the shoulder, left hand side, an oroboro… Orub… A what?”

“Ouroboros, the snake swallowing its own tail. Bingo,” Sherlock intoned. “I think we have our man.”

“I would be satisfied to say so, given your detailed summary,” Tanner agreed.

“No mention of the other man or woman in the gang then?”

“I’m coming to that. We’ve still no sign of the woman calling herself Mary Morstan, however, the man known as Francis Culverton Smith, apparently he joined a charter flight to Paris from City of London Airport at 3am. Already bought and paid for. Landed at Paris at around four in the morning. French police apparently received a tip off that he was on the plane and wanted by British Police, so they took him into custody and denied him entry to France.”

“Anonymous tip-off?” It was the first time Greg had taken an active part in the conversation. Mycroft realised how much he had missed the man’s voice. 

“Actually no, the name they gave us was Detective Sergeant Gregson.”

“Gregson? He was a constable in my division,” Greg said, surprised.

“Well, it may come as no surprise that the caller was a woman, gave Gregson’s name and number, but it convinced the French police to act. However, quite apart from the fact that Sergeant Gregson is a man, he could have had nothing to do with the call anyway. He’s currently on holiday with his wife in Malaga. The call came from a mobile somewhere near Gatwick.”

“Burner phone, probably,” Sherlock commented, “designed not to be traced, one use only. I would guess that was Mary.”

“I would be inclined to think so too,” Tanner agreed. “We sent someone over to collect Smith this morning. The French are not interested in holding onto him. They didn’t even allow him through customs, and furthermore, they’re not interested in making life difficult for us either, so we have two of the gang.”

“Have you questioned the one Anderson caught?”

“We’ve tried, but beyond the names he was given, and what they were attempting to do, I’m fairly confident he wasn’t trusted with anything else. He doesn’t know where they were heading, he had no idea of any of the gang’s individual plans. He was a grunt, someone who was willing and able to shoot a gun. He told us he was expecting £20k for the completed job. He’s been arrested of course, and he’ll be convicted. The moment there was a whisper of a treason charge, not to mention murder, he sang like a bird. The problem there is…”

“You already know the song?” Sherlock speculated.

Tanner nodded. “Pretty much, yes.”

“So what now?”

“Now we have to effect damage control. The Press have so far not been made aware of this incident. However, there remains the matter of a double murder of a couple in Southwark, a school that has lost three teachers in very quick succession, a missing Roman statue and a high profile museum that lost it.” Mycroft cringed to hear the details laid out in such a clinical way. When he glanced up, it was to find Greg watching him with concern. He coloured slightly and tried not to look away. “So, my suggestion is this…” There was a soft knock at the door.

“Ah, my apologies. That,” Mycroft said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet, “will probably be afternoon tea. I took the liberty of arranging refreshment for us with our Cafe. We may as well eat as we chat.” He got up and went to the door, opening it to find Mrs Hudson pushing a rather well-laden tea trolley. She was accompanied by one of the waiters from the cafe. Mycroft greeted her with a smile and allowed them in, and they quickly and efficiently placed a burgeoning cake stand on the table, together with plates, cups, cutlery, two teapots, milk and sugar. As they left, Anthea handed him the package. He nodded thanks, and absently examined the address on his way back to the table. It was addressed to him, but there was a return address in small type in the top left of the label. 

_Ms M Morstan, Venus Holdings, Culverton Lane, Milverton, M8 4UG_


	23. Curiouser and Curiouser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making up is not hard to do, and there is a light at the end of the tunnel...

“Mycroft, what on earth is the matter?” Greg couldn’t help noticing how quiet Mycroft had gone. He was staring at the package that sat before him on his place setting. Mycroft, startled out of his thoughts by Greg’s voice, glanced up at him. 

“I…” he started to say, then stopped. “Forgive me, gentlemen. Do dig in. I forgot to ask Anthea to do something for me…” He glanced at Greg and his message was clear. _Come with me, please_.

“Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take this opportunity to visit the loo,” Greg said. “Could you remind me where it is, Mycroft?”

“Certainly, if you’ll follow me.” Sherlock did not miss the speed of his brother’s departure, but at John’s quizzical glance, he minutely shook his head and grabbed a scone. 

“These look delicious,” he said, and pulled a plate toward him. “Don’t be reticent Bill, dig in, Mrs Hudson’s cream teas are the talk of Ashton Parva.”

“I will gather you are not interested in the whereabouts of the men’s bathroom,” Mycroft said as he closed the door on his office behind them. 

“You looked like you needed company.”

“Yes, well, look at the return address on this,” he said, handing the package to Greg. 

Greg glanced at the label and boggled. “What the fu…?”

“Precisely. Anthea, scissors, now,” Mycroft ordered. She lifted some smoothly from her office drawer and handed them over. 

“Why can’t I do that?” Greg grinned at her. “Never where I want them to be when I need them.”

“Always return them to the same place,” she offered. “Don’t be lazy.” Her smile was gold. 

Mycroft wrestled with the tightly bound packaging. “You said this was delivered by courier this morning?”

“Yes, bike courier, apparently. Janine wouldn’t stop going on about how sexy he looked. A guy in black leathers, about her height she said, which puts him around five foot eight. _Slim and lithe_ I believe were the words she used, and never took his helmet off… What?”

“Never took his helmet off, hm?” Greg said, quizzically.

“That’s what she said.” 

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he said to Mycroft.

“I have no idea,” Mycroft replied. “We do not know what this holds yet.”

“Get a move on then, or they’ll come looking.”

“I am doing my best…”

“Here, hand it to me,” Anthea said, fondly exasperated. “I do this for a living, remember. Don’t worry,” she reassured. “I’ll be careful, I highly doubt it’s a bomb, but…” She smiled wider at their twin expressions of alarm. “How precious,” she said. “It’s nice to know I’m cared about, but seriously, airborne pathogens commonly only require an envelope, and bombs weigh altogether more than this…” 

“How do you…?”

“I have a very _interesting_ resume, Mr Lestrade, and Mr Holmes inherited me so has never had occasion to read it. There,” she said, profering the open end of the package. Sure enough, hidden inside was a box with the British Museum logo emblazoned on the end. 

Dry mouthed, Mycroft slid the box from its packaging, and stared. He slid the box lid off, and inside was a small hand written note on white laid paper, typical of hotel notepaper the world over. “Here,” he said. “You read it, it’s actually addressed to you. It has your initials on the top, not mine.” Greg took it and read the small neat handwriting silently. 

_Dear Greg,_

_You remember I once said you were one of the good guys? Well, consider this my contribution to making sure the bad guys don’t always get what they want. My clients were very pleased with the service I provided, and the finders fee contained a bonus. I told them I hadn’t managed to get the other thing they asked for. Blamed it on my colleague and her revenge kick. They weren’t pleased, but it’s a hazard of the job. Considering she was tied up with other things at the time, she was in no position to contradict me, and even if she had, I doubt they would have listened. However, if I were you, I’d get your fella to consider a bit of extra security for your guest. Couldn’t hurt. Anyway, you won’t hear from me again, unless you want someone finding, that is. However, I doubt you could afford me. You’ll find the things you misplaced on your doormat too. Posted them last night. So have a good life, and I hope it was worth it. Do everything I can’t. Get married, have kids, love each other. Least I’ll have one good thing to remember was my fault._

_Regards_

_MM._

Greg looked up and wordlessly passed the piece of paper to Mycroft. “Now what?” he asked. “Is that what I think it is?” Mycroft nodded, without glancing away from reading the note. His hand extended toward Greg, holding out the box. Inside, bright against her soft cushion, lay the Venus. Greg grinned. “She’s lovely.” 

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Mycroft said. “However in this case, how could the beholder’s eye lie?”

They went back into the room separately. Not that they needed to, but they found they had a desire not to look like they were in collusion, and when Greg went back in, Mycroft was already telling them about the Venus.

“Sorry, guys, I got lost, place is a rabbit warren. What did I miss?” Of course he had to feign surprise, but then, he had already honed his skills as an actor once before and found it easier to act surprised than he’d thought it would be. Of the note, there was no sign.

“So there’s nothing with it, no note?” Tanner asked.

Mycroft met Greg’s eyes. “Nothing I could see apart from the label.” He pointed it out. Sherlock laughed. “Well, if that isn’t obvious… Looks like Ms Morstan has had a fit of conscience.”

“I don’t get the postcode though,” John said. 

“Nothing to get, John.” Sherlock met his eyes and smiled. “Just a random thing to make sure it look convincing, I should think.” 

“Well, I should take this as evidence, however,” Tanner said, watching their faces, “seeing as how we haven’t told the British Museum about the events yet, I was going to do that after we’d spoken this afternoon and discussed where to go from here, and seeing as how our protagonists are in fact not going to be facing trial, I think we can say this is an open and shut case. We can manage details like Smith. I’m sure he’ll settle for a shorter sentence in exchange for keeping his mouth firmly closed, not that anyone would believe him anyway, but if he needs incentive, we can always threaten to find kiddy porn on his computer. Assuming you, Mr Lestrade, are not wishing to pursue damages…”

“Who would I pursue?” Greg asked. “Looks like Adler and Milverton are dead. Morstan has dropped off the map and I didn’t really have any contact with Smith. As to the man you have in custody, I’m not sure there’s a point.”

“I think I can persuade Phil Anderson to forget about the real events,” Mycroft offered. “Perhaps say how he and Dr Watson teamed up to stop a burglar in his tracks…If john is agreeable, that is?” He glanced at John. “Easier to manage what he tells people if there were two of you involved.”

“Then include Mrs H, she’s easily as courageous as us, and she did call the police,” John said. 

“And set the fire alarms off,” Sherlock added. “Well deserved, John.”

John grinned. “Well, it’ll sound better if the headline is Museum Staff Team Up To Foil Unwitting Burglar, don’t you think?”

Tanner smiled. “That would tie things up nicely. Let me know how it goes. I think an award for bravery might be found from somewhere…”

Tanner took his leave a short time later. Mycroft saw him out and then came back to find Sherlock and John devouring the rest of the cakes, and Greg… Greg was standing apart, hands in his pockets, looking around the room. 

“I’m kind of glad it’s changed,” he said.

“Anthea’s doing actually. Apparently the staff pulled together to change things for me so I wouldn’t be reminded too heavily…”

“That was kind…”

“Yes it was, and they deserve a bonus. John, I am thinking of booking somewhere special for a corporate Christmas Dinner this year. Would you think the rest of the staff would approve?”

“Sounds good. We’ve not done that in a while.”

“Overdue then, good. Well, canvas the rest of the staff for me, would you? See where the general consensus is that they’d like to go.”

“Sure, I can manage that.” he turned to Sherlock. “So, what was the postcode on that letter meant to mean?”

“Oh, come, John. You know my methods…”

“Yeah but I’m not such a devious git as you…” 

Sherlock smiled. “It’s text shorthand,” he said. “M and the figure eight, em-eight, mm-ate, mate. 4U is obviously ‘for you’ and I am presuming the G stands for Greg. Mate, for you, Greg. Well, she did send you a note, Greg.”

“Note?” Greg affected a casual confusion at Sherlock’s certainty that there was a note.

“There was no note, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

“There _was_ a note. She couldn’t simply have sent that back to you without saying something…”

“No note, Sherlock,” Mycroft maintained. Their eyes met. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, nodded and smiled again.

“Very well. It’s to be like that, is it? Fine. Come on, John. You promised to show me the new Exhibition before it opens…”

“Sherlock…” John protested.

“It’s fine, John,” Mycroft said. “You might do me a favour. I think Terry will want to get this in place today. Would you find him for me, tell him he can settle the Venus in her showcase as soon as it is convenient for him?”

“Sure, Mycroft...er, Mr Holmes.”

“John, come now. None of that. Please call me Mycroft, at least in private. You are, after all, dating my brother. Are we to expect a happy announcement in the near future?”

“Gah! Come on, John. That is enough…” With a sheepish grin, John followed Sherlock out the door. 

Silence fell. Mycroft hardly dared meet Greg’s eyes. When he did look up, it was to see Greg gazing at him longingly.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft…” he said gruffly, his voice weighted with emotion.

“Oh, Gregory. There is nothing to be sorry for. I understand you thought you were keeping me safe.”

“I was. What she threatened...I...I would never have been able to live with myself if…if you got hurt...”

“I know, me either. I...I would have given her the whole bloody museum to keep you safe.” There was a silence between them for a moment and then Greg chuffed a laugh. “Grief, look at us, hey? Come here.”

Mycroft found himself engulfed in a hug, wrapped in Greg Lestrade’s strong arms, held close, raspy stubble against his cheek, hot breath against his ear. _Heaven,_ he thought, holding Greg as fiercely close as he could in return. They stood like that for what seemed like an eternity, just acclimatising to each other again, until a quiet cough from the door interrupted them. They broke apart reluctantly and Mycroft tugged his jacket down before turning. “Anthea?”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir. Terry’s here to see you. Apparently Dr Watson told him he could put the Venus in her case this afternoon?” 

“Ah, yes, please, send him through. And Anthea…?”

“Sir?”

“Thank you.” She smiled a radiant grin and walked out. 

**00000000000**

“So… seems like that’s an end to it all.” Mycroft settled back in his deck chair on the terrace behind his house, regarding Greg who was reclining on a similar chair beside him. The summer breeze ruffled the leaves of the lush trees surrounding Mycroft’s garden and the sun’s warmth radiated from the high garden wall to their right. A peach tree and a pear had been carefully trained to grow against it, fruit slowly ripening in the heat. Between them, on a low garden table, sat a decanter of decent whisky, the remains of two coffees and a scraped clean plate each. They had each polished off a substantial chunk of fudge cake to celebrate. With ice cream. A desultory wasp was investigating one of the plates in hopeful anticipation of finding the remains of something sweet. Greg leaned over and batted it away with a magazine. 

“My copper’s instinct says this is not done with, but...given the latest news, I guess the worst is over. You never know if Mary might pop up again someday.”

“I truly hope not. Greg…” Mycroft looked at him, curious. “Thank you…”

“What for?”

“Just...I feel I owe it to you. You did everything you could to keep me safe, and we...well, we’ve not...been together…” he cleared his throat. “Our relationship is not...I mean…”

“Mycroft?” Greg rolled his head to look at the man who was clearly struggling. “Soulmates, remember?” he said gently.

“Really? I mean...are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know...It’s just...a scant four weeks ago, less than a month, I didn’t know you. You were not even on my radar. Then you come tumbling into my life and my world and suddenly everything is overturned…”

“Too much for you, love?”

“I...I admit I am having occasional difficulty in...assimilating this…” He glanced guiltily over to where Greg was lounging in a completely relaxed state, as if he belonged there. _He does not look worried or irritated or angry or...anything really. He is accepting. Concerned, yes, but not...not angry. Patient, that was it, he looks...patient, calm, content_. Mycroft felt relief wash through him. “I am sorry, truly. I...I am finding events are...snowballing too fast.”

“Hey,” Greg said, gently. “It’s fine. It’s a lot to take in. Look, mate, I was a copper for a lot of years, I’ve been through stuff like this before...well, maybe not the kidnapping part...but I’ve faced off criminals before, I’ve arrested people, ended up in more than my share of fights, and...I ended up with a breakdown after Ellie died, because of the grief, and work stress added to it. I tipped over because I couldn’t cope. This… I admit it nearly tipped me again, and I am going to seek help, to find counselling, talk it through, but...you’re not used to this kind of thing. Hell, I’m not blasé about it, but at least I’m probably better trained to deal and I’ve had experience of what you do when you can’t deal with it.”

“A veritable expert,” Mycroft murmured, smiling.

“Hardly, but enough to know, it can be hard on the victim, and you may need someone to talk it through with too. Offloading can help, despite the fact that I had a bad experience with it before.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I was telling John. I had to go through what was essentially something I wanted to forget and put behind me, and they wouldn’t let me. Patronising bastard of a doctor too, but that’s in the past. Doesn’t mean therapy isn’t useful. This time I’ll find someone I’m compatible with. John and I had a talk about it. He’s given me some advice, offered to contact people he knows and trusts.” He had asked John about it before they had left the museum earlier, and John had assured him he would put Greg in touch with someone he knew. “Darling, you said, back there, you’d have given them the whole museum to keep me safe…”

“I would have.”

Greg smiled and sipped his whisky. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t think how we feel about each other has suffered, Myc. I think it’s consolidated. I know how I feel about you.”

“And how is that?”

“LIke you’re a missing piece of me, like before you I had a bit of the jigsaw missing and you slotted into it, perfect fit, you know? Like before you, I didn’t know I had a bit missing...Well, I thought I did, I thought I knew which bit too.” He sighed. “I’m not making sense either. Look... When Ellie died, I thought I’d lost everything. Life carried on, yeah? I pulled round, I made myself continue, I retrained, made a life… Four years on, Mycroft, just four years and, while I miss her, nobody ever made me feel like you have, not even Eleanor. I am sad she died, I am sad, and that sounds a very inadequate word to describe it, but…”

“Like the word _love_ is inadequate to describe our most heartfelt attraction sometimes,” Mycroft suggested, “but it will have to do, lacking a better one.”

“Yeah, agreed. So, I am sad that she’s gone but...she’s not here anymore, and I am. I have a life to live that she would want me to live, despite it being without her. I know we try to justify that our dead relatives would have wanted us to do certain things...You know how it is, how many times do we say, _oh, he would have wanted you to be happy,_ or _she would have wanted you to do such a thing?_ How do we know? Sometimes there might have been a jealous bugger who is looking down on his wife going _how the fuck dare you marry again, you bitch?_ How do we know? Answer is, we don’t, not truly, but I knew Ellie, and she had no jealous bone in her body. If there is something after death, then I hope she’s happy, and I hope I see her again someday, but...right now, right here, I’m with you. I’ve found you, and if you think for one moment I am giving you up without a struggle, then you thought wrong. I love you, Mycroft Holmes. I love you. If I was in any doubt before, I’m not now. However, I can wait. For you. If this is too much, if you need space, then so be it. Take some time to get your head straight, to sort your feelings out. Whatever, I will be waiting.” 

Mycroft swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. Gregory’s words were so heartfelt and sincere. _For me,_ he thought. _He is doing this for me…_ He took a deep breath and let it go slowly.

“Gregory, I... You are such a wonderful person. If we can thank that covetous bitch for anything, it is for consolidating my feelings about you. I do love you too. Unequivocally. Irrevocably. You are a part of my heart and I do not think I could do without you either. However, this is a lot to...cope with, to get my head around. I have the exhibition opening to work upon, and a lot rides on it with regard to my career… If you are agreeable, I would appreciate us taking things a little more slowly… just until I am… a little better able to process…?”

“Course,” Greg agreed. “I’m content with the fact that we both love the other, and there’s a foundation there. We can build on that at our own pace. The best houses are built with care and time and attention to detail. You’re a master of that, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Well, you know what they say?”

“What’s that?”

“A Holmes is where the heart is…” 


	24. I'm Your Venus, I'm Your Fire, Your Desire...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the final countdown, folks... apologies it seems to have taken forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abbotsfield and Levenlowe are fictitious places but across the UK there have been located various Roman villas and mosaic floors of great beauty and in a fantastic state of preservation. I have no idea if there is such a figure as the Abbotsfield Venus. I have found one of Faustina, the wife of Marcus Aurelius, and one of Zeus Serapis, but not one of Venus in gold, although there is a Roman Venus figure in copper in the museum at Astypalaia, Greece. It is not inconceivable that there might be such a thing, a tiny gold figure of Venus waiting to be found somewhere. So delve into your imaginations, and here goes…

Flash bulbs popped and champagne flowed, eager chatter and the sound of glasses clinking filling the gallery as Greg wove his way through the throng of guests. The buffet table was being overseen by Mrs Hudson, keeping a careful eye on things, and Anthea was busy making sure everything was running smoothly without appearing to do so. _Business as usual then,_ he thought, snagging two glasses of something cold as he passed a waiter. He paused to scan the faces to find Mycroft. He was standing over by the Abbottsfield Venus with Lady Smallwood, heads together, discussing something serious by the look of them.

“...distinctive influences of Eastern Europe,” Mycroft was saying, “with overtones of…” His words were lost in a sudden burst of chatter from a group of women who walked past, and Greg maneuvered around them, trying not to spill the champagne. He stood just to one side of Mycroft’s eyeline, watching him discourcing on his subject with confidence and enthusiasm. He was lit from within, Greg thought, seeing the passion for his vocation coming through. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft said happily, realising he was there. Alicia Smallwood allowed herself to be drawn away by another couple she obviously knew, leaving them alone.

“Mycroft, thought you could do with a refill.” Greg handed over a glass.

“You are a lifesaver,” Mycroft murmured, accepting the glass and taking a cooling gulp. “Christ, I’d forgotten how intense these opening nights can be.”

“Talked yourself hoarse?”

“Practically, yes.” 

“It’s going well, love. Everyone is loving it.” They took a moment to look around. The slick interactive screens were currently surrounded by people all waiting to try them out, and James Moriarty was surrounded by guests, happily discussing the installation and content for anybody who would listen. Behind him, Seb Moran was standing looking a tad possessive, which was interesting. Greg wondered briefly what might be developing there. Glass cases displaying pot sherds, coins, jewellery, weapons, armour and shoes, in fact everything from the Roman era that the museum collections could muster, were strategically placed throughout the exhibition, backing up archaeology with replica where required. A legionary soldier walked past them, nodding to Mycroft in recognition. 

“Who was that?” Greg asked. 

“Harry Piper, Head of the local Roman reenactment group. They agreed to field a few people to bring the place to life.” A half dozen Roman Legionaries and their ladies were dotted strategically about the gallery. Two of the soldiers stood guard at the gallery door, and another soldier and one of the women were occupying the partial reconstruction of a Roman Villa in one corner of the gallery. Mycroft had wanted two replica Roman rooms to be constructed, to be used as classroom and interactive facilities. It had worked surprisingly well and the people in costume made it come alive. 

Mycroft took Greg’s elbow, moving them through the gallery, stepping through slowly rotating images of mosaics and coins projected on the floor. A background soundtrack of music played on period instruments could just be heard above the chatter. It was everything Mycroft had hoped for. In pride of place, of course, the Abbottsfield Venus looked on in splendour, never knowing how close she’d come to not being there at all. 

Greg glanced at his lover. Mycroft was positively glowing. Greg wondered if Mycroft knew what he looked like; a supremely confident man in his home environment. It made a wonderful change to the vulnerable, defeated person Irene had created. _Temporarily created_ he corrected himself. _We’re still here, and they’re not._ He had to admit to feeling somewhat triumphant about it. 

“You’ve been busy this evening, haven’t you?” Greg said. “I’ve had a hard time getting you to myself.”

“That, my dear, is an understatement. So far I’ve been interviewed by three newspapers, the local radio, and two magazines,” Mycroft replied. “Our marketing department has been working overtime.”

“Talking of working overtime,” Greg murmured, sipping his champagne, “James Sholto called me last night.” “Ah, yes. Did he tell you how the school is coping?”

“He’s now acting Head, and as far as the rest of the staff are concerned, Mary’s had a family emergency and has handed in her notice, effective immediately. Apparently, her husband has been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer and they are seeking treatment overseas…” “How lamentable,” Mycroft murmured, casting his eyes around them in case there was anyone close enough to eavesdrop. “This is the husband who never existed, I take it?” 

“The same.”

“How has Irene’s departure been explained?”

“James said the police have been round. Apparently, _Detective Inspector_ Tanner called to inform them that Irene had been found dead, murdered alongside her lover, Charles Milverton, at his gallery.”

“Murdered, eh?”

“Apparently so. The press report said that an unknown gang mounted a raid on Milverton’s gallery in Soho on Tuesday night, murdered the couple in their bed in the flat upstairs.”

“How tragic,” Mycroft murmured. “It’s a believable story I suppose.” 

“Yeah, well, seems nobody is that upset, despite the usual expressions of shock about it all. There’s more than one hinting at how maybe she deserved it.” 

“Not really surprising.”

“Yes, well, James isn’t stupid. He knows something was going on before…I sort of confided in him that I was in a fix, but didn’t give him details.”

“Did he question you?”

“Nothing probing. He’s a soldier, he knows when silence is required, but he did ask if everything was okay.”

“What did you say? how did you explain your own absence?”

“Well, apparently my absence has been explained for me. James thanked me for sending my sick note in. Amazing what you can achieve despite not having visited a doctor.” 

“I gather someone organised that for you?”

“The Fairy Godfather had something to do with it. Thankfully Tanner called me before I spoke to Sholto, told me he’d had me signed off by a doctor as having flu, so I wouldn’t have to answer any awkward questions.”

“He counted without sholto though.”

“Yeah, but James isn’t daft, as I said. I just told him everything had worked out. He asked about the robbery at the museum. He’s obviously put two and two together, knows what was going on at school was part of it somehow, just doesn’t know how. I trust him though, he won’t ask more. I hate lying to him but…”

“But. It is better this way.”

“I know, it’s just…” Greg could not continue, he didn’t have the words. He shrugged. “I know MI5 want to keep Irene’s name out of it all because of her history but… still seems a bit cloak and dagger.”

“Her death was convenient, and it suits them to make sure her real identity never comes to light. If that involves a little cloak and dagger cover-up, then that is what they will ensure.” 

“Still seems a bit...unreal, I guess.”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “Believe me, MI5 and 6 are very real. They will do whatever they have to in order to protect the Crown, and thus our sovereign status overseas…Anyway, when do you return to work?”

“Probably next week sometime, although the absence of any residual sniffles might be thought odd.”

“Just blame it on robust constitution.”

“If I had one of those, I maybe wouldn’t have caught flu anyway?”

“Fair point. Vitamin C?”

Greg chuckled. “In that case, my intake must have been Herculean.” He took a breath and fixed Mycroft with a look. “I am actually looking forward to seeing the kids before they leave, it’s just…” Just then a phone beeped in someone’s pocket, making Greg pause. 

“Oh, good grief,” Mycroft murmured, fishing his phone out of his pocket and glancing at it. “My assistant’s timing is abysmal. Please forgive me, Gregory. That was a text from Anthea. I’m needed at the podium.” He handed the now empty glass to Greg and leaned in, kissing him on the cheek unselfconsciously. Greg smiled and kissed back.

“Don’t worry about me. Go get em, Myc,” he said gently, watching the man weave through the crowd, plucking some folded papers from inside his jacket.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, if I might have your attention please?” Anthea stood at the podium that had been set up at the back of the hall. She tapped a spoon against the cut crystal of a wine glass and gradually the hubbub died down. “Thank you,” she said, when the volume had dropped sufficiently that she could be heard. “Tonight, I would like to welcome you all to our new exhibition, “A Far Corner of the Empire”, on behalf of the Trustees of the Sherrinford Museum and the Ashton Parva Philosophical Society, without whom this exhibition would not have been possible. So, without further ado, I now have great pleasure in inviting Mycroft Holmes, Director of The Sherrinford, to take the podium to deliver this evening’s address.” She turned and began to clap as Mycroft walked up to take his place, and soon the room was filled with the sound of applause. 

Greg found himself smiling with pride. The capable, dapper man who commanded the room with ease was his partner. _Mine,_ he thought, happily. Smiling, Mycroft used the time until the clapping subsided to put his spectacles on before speaking. He looked dignified, professorial. “Firstly I must thank you all for your attendance this evening to help us celebrate the opening of our new exhibition. Your support is greatly appreciated. As with every exhibition,” Mycroft continued thoughtfully, absently pushing his half-glasses up his nose, “sometimes you reach a point where you wonder if it will ever happen. Sometimes you wish it would _never_ happen!” He smiled ruefully, and paused as the audience chuckled politely. “However, in this instance, I very much hoped that it would come to pass, considering that our Exhibition Officer, Terry Grant, worked extremely hard on the content and his vision for the exhibition is nothing short of inspired.” Mycroft allowed a wave of applause to subside before continuing. “As every school child learns, Roman influence on this country extended over a wide area, and left us with a legacy that has lasted the best part of two thousand years. In the Ashton area the remains of not one but two Roman Villas have been located, and we sit close to Watling Street, one of the major arterial routes through the country for the Roman army. Over the years many and various artefacts have been located in the area dating from the period, and some have proved to be rather special. Indeed, with the developments for the new HS2 rail line many more archaeological investigations have been undertaken allowing us new insight into this part of England’s history. Through our innovative light and sound installation, provided by James Moriarty and Richard Brook of Moriarty Brook Associates, you can experience the magnificence of the mosaic floor from the Levenlowe villa right here in this gallery, and In 1986, a treasure hoard was found less than twenty miles away down the road from Ashton Parva, in Abbotsfield. We have been lucky to be able to partner with the British Museum who acquired the hoard for the Nation, and we are therefore proud to host the Abbottsfield Venus, a gold figurine of outstanding beauty and workmanship...” 

Greg found his mind wandering as Mycroft continued to wax lyrical about the content of the exhibition. His memory called up of soft skin, lean muscle, and freckles. Unbidden, he recalled prior activities and suddenly all he wanted to do was go home with Mycroft and ravish the man.

“And so, in conclusion, all that remains for me to say is a few well-chosen words of praise and appreciation,” Mycroft said, bringing his address to a close. “A lot of people have put in a great many hours of hard work to bring this exhibition to its completion and, like any award ceremony, I need to make sure I do not forget anyone, otherwise there will be Hell to pay.” Another ripple of polite laughter washed through the assembled guests. “So…” Mycroft consulted a piece of paper in front of him. “In no particular order, I would like to thank…” 

The list went on for some time, thanking all the contributors and the sponsors, citing their individual involvement and help. The proceedings were paused frequently for appreciative applause until the last person had been publicly acknowledged. Just as Greg was starting to despair that it would ever end, Mycroft cleared his throat as the applause subsided again.

“If I may beg your indulgence for a few moments more?” Mycroft requested, pausing for a moment. He scanned the crowd, waiting for their attention to once again fall on him. “Many of you will have seen the news that hit the papers recently concerning an attempt to rob the museum.” There was a murmur of agreement and a lot of people nodded their heads in assent. “For those of you who have not been privy to that information, a small gang broke in last Tuesday evening, aided and abetted by someone familiar to both staff and security alike for a good many years. It has saddened and surprised us that someone in a position of some authority at the University, someone who has volunteered and studied here at the museum for many years, chose to betray our trust in such a manner. Nobody expected him to turn on us, but the fact remains that he did. Security was bypassed and the gang would have managed it, had it not been for some quick witted members of our staff who happened to be working late that evening. Instead of remaining safely behind office doors, they decided to take a risk to protect their museum and its artefacts, thwarting the robbers and alerting our security team and the police. I am immensely proud to say that these people are my colleagues, and I would therefore personally like to thank our Head of Conservation, Philip Anderson, our Head of Anthropology, Dr John Watson, and our Shop and Cafe Mangeress, Mrs Martha Hudson. Had they not intervened, in my personal opinion I very much doubt you would all have been standing here tonight. So for services above and beyond, I would like to dedicate tonight in part to them, for displaying the spirit of what it means to be part of the Sherrinford Team.” Mycroft started the clapping himself, which grew in volume. Greg had never had occasion to see Mrs Hudson blush before, but the lady coloured slightly as people around about offered praise, and both John Watson and Phil Anderson looked a little uncomfortable, but at the same time, proud. Standing slightly behind John, Sherlock also wore an expression of pride, and his arm slipped around John’s shoulders drawing the smaller man in for a hug. Mycroft leaned to the microphone and said “Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen, we hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.” He stepped down as the audience broke into applause again, and immediately found Greg at his elbow.

“You,” Greg said, “were magnificent.”

Mycroft smiled. “I wish I had been able to include you in the praise. You deserve it more than anybody.”

“Nonsense,” Greg said. “I don’t need it, love. We’re safe, we’re okay, you’re mine, don’t need more. You were very…”

“Pompous? Pretentious?”

“Not in the least. You’re a museum director, you’re supposed to sound like that, aren’t you?”

“Like what?”

“Well, all praiseworthy and academic.” 

Mycroft laughed. “I dare say you are correct. Now, I need to stay for a while at least. I cannot be seen to leave too early. Come on, let me introduce you to a few people.” 

000000000000

“Penny for them?” Greg looked around and then down at the small woman who had sidled up to him. “It’s Greg, isn’t it?” She had caught him staring unfocused into the middle distance, his thoughts elsewhere. Mycroft had been whisked away again by Anthea for more press photos, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He had no idea what he must have looked like, considering his thoughts had taken a downturn. 

“Oh, hi. It’s Molly, isn’t it? How are you?” He shook her hand, trying to bring his brain back on track. “We met when I brought my class, didn’t we?” 

She nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I’m fine, thanks. Anthea was telling us all about what happened. Must have been awful. How are you though?”

“Oh...I’m okay. It wasn’t pleasant but...well, Mr Holmes and I are alive…”

“Thank goodness. Oh, please don’t worry,” she whispered, “I understand we’re not supposed to know _all_ the details. Anthea said it was all a bit hush hush.” 

“Some of it, yes.” 

“Well, it all sounds just awful. You and John and even Phil… Who’d have known he’d have turned out to be so brave?”

“People can surprise you.” 

“Yes, they can, can’t they?” She sipped her wine. 

“So what do you think about all this then?” Greg asked, hunting for something to say.

“I think it’s amazing,” she admitted. “Means more work for me though.” She giggled, nervously. “With the Romans being in the new school curriculum, we’ll probably be offering more workshops and such next term. Going to need help though. I’ve got so much to work on I’m snowed under.”

“Well, here’s to help when you need it.” He raised his glass.

Molly grinned. “I’m going to need a lot,” she said, and then drained her glass. “I’m going to find another drink.” She giggled again. “Doesn’t that sound terrible? Makes me sound as if I get drunk on a regular basis. Nice talking to you, Greg. Hope to see you again sometime.” He watched her go, weaving through the crowded halls. 

“Hello there.” Greg turned to see a smaller man, dark eyes smiling, drink in hand, other hand outstretched to shake. 

“Hi. You are?” Greg asked, shaking the man’s hand firmly. 

“James Moriarty, last time I looked,” the man joked. “Let me introduce you to my brother and colleague, Richard Brook. We did the installations, the AR, and VR.” A slightly shorter and younger man standing behind James leaned forward with a hand outstretched. Greg could see the family resemblance.

“He means the interactive stuff,” Richard explained, grinning on seeing Greg’s puzzled look as they shook hands. “Augmented reality, and virtual reality.”

Greg grinned. “I see. Forgive me, but… computers are not my forte. So you’re brothers?” he asked. 

“Half brother, really,” Richard said. “Hence the different names.” 

“Ah, I see. Well, guys, you’ve done an amazing job with all this. It’s all very engaging,” Greg said, smiling. He cast about for Mycroft but the man was nowhere to be seen. _Ah well, no rescue there then._ “So,” he said to James, “tell me more…” 

Finally Greg sought Mycroft out from where he was chatting to the Lord Mayor. “I’m really glad this worked out for you.” He gestured around the gallery, at the people milling about, chatting, making appreciative comments. “But...take me home?” he asked hopefully. “I’ve spent all evening trying to find you. Had a hard time getting away from a certain pair of IT specialists. I know a lot more about augmented reality than maybe I needed to know…”

“I spent mine trying to get back to you, only to be thwarted at every turn by inquisitive guests and overzealous photographers.” Mycroft checked his watch. “Well, the Lord Mayor is leaving, so I think I might possibly withdraw at this time without causing too much offense. Give me a moment to talk to Anthea, and to collect our coats, and we will make our goodbyes. I also need to make sure I say farewell to Lady Smallwood, otherwise she’ll never forgive me, but after that, I am yours. ”

In the taxi back to Mycroft’s, the sky pale with the late dusk of high summer, Greg leaned against his lover and smiled. “You think it was a success then?”

“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed noncommittally. “I reserve judgement until I see the reviews in the newspapers tomorrow.”

“Well, I think it was a success anyway. Thought you were amazing.” A soft huff of laughter reached his ears. “What?”

“I am not amazing at all. I am human, Greg. You’ve seen me at my worst, and my most vulnerable, and you still think I’m amazing.”

“All the more so.”

“Why?”

“Love, because you _are_ human, you _can_ be vulnerable, but you can also pull out all the stops like you did tonight, standing there all...handsome and intellectual and academic and posh. You had everyone there in the palm of your hand, hanging onto every word. You sounded so...erudite and charming. So accomplished.”

“Greg, I…” Mycroft paused, unable to find the words. “You…”

“Charming, intelligent, and handsome. Sexy too.” Greg let the statement hang there in the air between them. He saw Mycroft shiver, and close his eyes.

“What have I done to deserve you?” Mycroft asked, his tone hushed, almost reverent.

“No idea. Karma's a bitch,” Greg deadpanned. 

“Gregory, please. I am being serious. Honestly, I have no idea why you would find me so interesting…”

“Soulmates,” Greg said firmly. “You know those mosaics…?”

“Yes?”

“What do you call the individual brick bits?”

“The tiles?”

“Nope, they’ve got another name. I just can’t think…”

“Tesserae? Tessellations?”

“Tessellations, that’s the word. That’s what you are, Mycroft. My tessellation.” Mycroft smiled, warmly. “We just fit together, like those tessellations. We complement each other. You complete me.” 

“Gregory…I confess I feel the same. You are...like the missing pages of a book I am only just beginning to read...despite the disparity in that statement.” It was Greg’s turn to laugh. 

“Listen to us. What are we like, hm?” Greg took Mycroft’s hand, gently squeezing his fingers. “However you describe it, we’re obviously important to each other.”

“Yes we are, and on that note, something you said caused me concern earlier…”

“What did I say?”

“You were talking about being glad to go back to school to see your class again, and then you added a _but_. But what, Gregory? You sounded somewhat uncertain.” Greg was silent, wondering at the deductive powers of Holmeses. One small reluctant word and Mycroft had noted it. “Are you not looking forward to the Autumn term, so you can experience a full year in your new vocation, with a new Headteacher?”

Greg huffed. “Not a lot gets past you, does it?” he muttered. “I guess I should be, but....I’m not sure what I expected, you know? I went through training college and I passed with flying colours. Never expected to. Never expected I would drag myself out of my grief long enough to do well, but I did. But...it’s not been easy, at times. I’m not talking about my colleagues, either. Apart from Irene, the others have been great to work with, even Mary, despite the fact that she wasn’t really a teacher. I’m talking about the teaching itself. Being there for the kids, being their rock, their guide, their stability, their mentor. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Don’t get me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “I admire anyone who can do this job. It’s tough sometimes, and you need to be dedicated to it, but I found it hard, to be honest. I got given the ones with disadvantages, Myc. I was given the rough ones, the tough cookies, the hard nuts. Was it because I was an ex-copper? Was it because I was expected to find it easy to maintain discipline? Dunno, but I got the ones with problems, the grieving ones, the rebels. I think she set me up to fail, but I didn’t. I managed to turn them around, to make them believe in themselves. I’m not a hero, or a genius. It took me hard graft but I got there, eventually. It’s just…”

“Just?”

“Me, I suppose. I’m not sure I’m cut out for it, really. Even if I am, I’m not sure I’m up to it any more…”

“Are you sure? I mean, you are good at what you do. I’ve seen you. The children love you.”

“It’s not enough, Mycroft. You have to be dedicated, and I’m not sure I am, completely.”

“Well, teaching isn’t for everyone. It seems a shame though, because you obviously have a talent for it.”

“Thanks, but...I’m just not as certain as I used to be.”

“I do hope that you are not letting one bad experience sour your career, Gregory? Irene has a lot to answer for, and I hope she has not destroyed your enthusiasm for your vocation.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know.” 

“Perhaps now is not the time to discuss this,” Mycroft suggested, gently. “We both require rest, and tomorrow is another day. I was hoping you would spend it with me?”

Greg smiled. “Of course. I’m looking forward to having you all to myself.” 

Mycroft smiled, relief coursing through him.

They stumbled through Mycroft’s door, making their way up to the bedroom without preamble, both far too tired to do more than throw off their clothes and climb into bed under nothing more than a single layer of cotton sheet. It was too warm to sleep close, but Mycroft left the window open, and a light breeze wafted through the room. In the dark, Mycroft’s fingers found Greg’s and laced them together. It was good to finally relax in his own comfortable bed, especially with such company. Greg’s soft snores reached his ears soon after, but Mycroft lay awake, thinking. He had an idea, but there would be some work involved…

**000000000000000**

Mycroft was up early. He threw open the patio windows on the summer dawn and breathed deep. It was fresher but still not too chilly and when Gregory joined him, they sat sipping tea, clad in their dressing gowns, on the terrace watching the sun rise higher in the sky, burning off the morning chill. 

The day proved to be a warm one, and they spent it companionably, sitting in the garden in shirtsleeves and perusing the Sunday papers, then driving into town to go food shopping. Neither man discussed what had been said concerning Greg’s doubts, and mycroft kept his considerations to himself. 


	25. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end...and a new beginning.

Mycroft returned to work after the weekend in a haze. He spent the morning scanning the papers, perusing the first reviews of the exhibition which seemed unanimously in favour. Everyone seemed to be full of praise for the innovations, the content and, of course, the exhibits themselves. Everybody settled back into their routines, and their visitor numbers increased encouragingly. The summer weather grew hotter. Life carried on. Several times Mycroft caught himself wondering about Greg and how he was coping on his return. A brief phone call at the beginning of the week had confirmed that everything had gone well on day one, but Mycroft was still concerned at Greg’s lack of confidence concerning his future. 

A knock at his door towards the end of the week heralded a visit from Molly Hooper, who was looking none too confident as she came in. Mycroft invited her to sit, and she did so, albeit reluctantly.

“So, Miss Hooper, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? End of term is nigh, is it not?” He smiled. “Looking forward to a well earned rest?”

“Yes, I am, Mr Holmes. Got holiday booked week after next but… well, I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you…” She seemed suddenly nervous.

“Why on earth should I?”

“It’s just...I don’t think I can manage the new workload on my own.” The words tumbled from her lips in a rush. “It’s just...with the new exhibition there’s so much more work. We’re being asked for outreach, which I can’t do on my own, and workshops we don’t yet have… Reservations are turning schools away.”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “As I understood it,” he said eventually, “the Education Department program is aligning with the new curriculum, there will be new offerings to schools....”

“Oh, yes, yes, it is, but there’s so much to do, and I’m just about starting from scratch. There’s so much work to finish I’m not getting home until after nine at night. We don’t have enough staff to deliver the volume you’re expecting either…”

“Exactly how many workshops do we deliver?” Mycroft regarded her over the top of his half rim glasses. For the next half hour they turned to discussing the Education Department requirements, mycroft’s embryonic idea growing form and substance as he chatted. Several things seemed to be coming clear. “Well, Ms Hooper, Molly,” he said warmly. “I will of course give this my full attention and I shall endeavour to have some answers for you before next week. Please don’t worry any more. We shall meet again before you go on leave and we will sort this out. I shall have Anthea contact you with a time.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

He watched her go. _Remiss of me,_ he thought, _that I have not made provision for the greater pressure on the education department._ He picked up his phone. “Anthea, yes. Would you get me Bill Murray in Finance? Yes, ask him to call, would you? Fairly urgent, yes.”

“So, you want me to give you a rough outline of the education budget and what we have available immediately?”

Mycroft nodded, regarding the man sitting across from him at the table with interest. Bill Murray was a shrewd thirty-something, an accountant with his finger on the pulse of the museum’s finances. He was currently examining some printouts, his briefcase open beside him, pen twirling in his fingers. “I took the liberty of talking to Reservations. Trying to get an idea of how much more work this exhibition is generating.”

“Did you come to any conclusions?”

“I’ve had a preliminary look at the numbers, nothing conclusive, you understand. I may need more data to be certain. However I am fairly sure we could support two more full-time members of staff. We’d be taking a punt on it, so I would suggest at least one of those positions being a short term part-time contract with a view to a possible extension, instead of two full timers.” Mycroft listened as Bill outlined the potentials. “I can have HR sort requirements and contracts and run them by you, and I can be back here in a couple of days with something more conclusive with regard to figures.”

“As ever, Bill, you understand the workings of the museum and it’s requirements perhaps better than I do.”

“Wouldn’t be good at the job if I didn’t, Mr Holmes.” Bill grinned and rose to his feet, packing his briefcase up again.

“Go work up something solid that I can pass by the board next week. Shall we look at Thursday to reconvene?”

“Consider it done, Mr Holmes.”

0000000

The following Saturday was the School fete, and Greg was not about to miss it. He did, however, invite Mycroft, who—to Greg’s eternal surprise—accepted. Mycroft was rather taken aback at the frankly alarming number of families with small children (which was to be expected, considering this was a school). However, most of them seemed to own dogs, everything from the small annoyingly yappy variety, to the large blundering hairy type, most of them excitable. The noise level was aggravatingly high. Mycroft swallowed his agitation and focused on his Gregory who was happily greeting parents and kids alike, petting their dogs, and complimenting Mrs and Mr concerning their little darlings. 

Mycroft looked around him as Gregory greeted yet another family. His lover was happy, ebullient and welcoming. Behind him a bouncy castle and various child-sized fairground games had been set up in the playground. Mycroft knew that the school hall had been designated the indoor craft market and would be sporting home-made cakes, greeting cards, knitted and crocheted baby clothes, and bead jewellery, amongst others. He had pitched in and helped set up the tables that morning after Greg had insisted they turn up ridiculously early to help people prepare.

They strolled through the school complex, Greg still greeting people, sharing jokes and good wishes as they worked their way to the yard at the front of the building. Greg had volunteered to have water-soaked sponges hurled at him to raise money for the school, and had, in his genial way, persuaded some of the parents to join in. It went on for a long time, and Mycroft eventually went for stroll until the soaking had ended. Greg found Mycroft afterward at the school kitchen, which was selling tea, coffee and juice to thirsty parents and kids alike. Overseen by the army of dinner ladies, they were doing quite a brisk trade. 

“How on earth did I let you inveigle me into this?” Mycroft muttered as Greg dripped on the floor. He reached to move a stray lock of hair that was plastered to Greg’s brow. “You require a towel…”

“Yeah. well, it’s actually rather nice. I’m finally cool.”

“You look hypothermic, Gregory. You are turning blue.” “I’m f.f.fine.” Greg stuttered, shivering. “Mother hen…”

“I am concerned for my partner, that is all.”

“I’m fine, love,” Greg reassured. “Dotty, you couldn’t pass us two teas and some paper towels, could you, love?” A motherly woman in a red apron poured two teas and passed them across with a grin, but handed him a proper hand towel. Greg thanked her and applied the towel vigorously to his hair, leaving the matter of tea retrieval to Mycroft. 

“Do you have any other...water-based duties to attend to?” Mycroft asked, handing over Greg’s tea when he finished drying off. 

Chuckling, Greg managed not to spill his tea as he sipped it. “Not water-based, no. I do, however, have the onerous duty of judging the dog show. It’s fine, I brought spare clothes...”

“Ah, that explains why there are so many canine visitors,” Mycroft said.

“We also have a police dog handling show in…” he checked his watch, “...twenty minutes, and then we do the dog show.”

Mycroft lowered his voice and murmured, “When will we be able to leave?” 

“Not before I visit the plant stall. There’s one or two things I want to buy…” 

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough, despite the high numbers of people attending the event. It seemed like every child—there were nearly three hundred of them at the school—had at least three siblings, two parents, and possibly at least one set of grandparents in attendance as well. Mycroft watched in amusement as Greg stepped up to don the padding and be pursued by the rather large alsatian called Sabre, who turned out to be a rather friendly animal when not under orders to bring criminals down. James Sholto also joined in, allowing Apollo, a German Shepherd, to do the same to him. After their heroic participation, to much applause from the crowd, the two men came over to where Mycroft had seated himself on the low wall that bordered the field, both of them laughing and breathless. 

“Not thinking of reapplying to the police to join the Canine Division then, Gregory?” Mycroft enquired.

“Christ, you have to be joking. That was…” Greg heaved a deep breath and let it out gustily. 

“Intense?” Sholto suggested. 

“Intimidating, at the least, I should have thought,” Mycroft said. 

“Haven’t had such an adrenaline rush in years,” Greg admitted. “Mycroft, allow me to introduce this mad bastard, James Sholto. James, this is my partner, Mycroft Holmes.”

They shook hands. “Glad to meet you, Mr Holmes.” 

“Mycroft, please,” Mycroft said pleasantly. “I understand you are acting Head now, under the...distressing circumstances.”

“Yes, for my sins.” James sat down beside him. “I understand that there was more going on than I know, or will ever find out, but doubtless, Greg has told you, I understand ‘need to know’ situations, and I am therefore not pushing to find out details.”

“You are a wise man, Mr Sholto.”

“James, please. And yes, I do try to be, although somehow the ability eludes me.” Mycroft instantly liked the tall man beside him. He was clever, sharp-witted and experienced; ex-military, professional to a fault, and also intensely loyal. 

“James, come on,” Greg said. “Ashton Parva’s answer to Crufts is calling…”

They returned home laden with home-made cakes, several plants and a bottle of merlot that Mycroft had won in the raffle. Bemused, because he could count on the fingers of one hand the times he had won anything, Mycroft carried his prize into the kitchen, and placed the cakes into cake boxes to keep them fresh. He also switched on the kettle, although he had drunk enough tea over the course of the day to float a battleship. “Gregory?” There was no answer, and Mycroft presumed he had gone to the loo. However, the tea brewed, there was still no appearance, and Mycroft called through the house to find his partner. 

“Greg?” Mycroft finally located him in the garden, planting out his purchases in the borders. Greg enjoyed gardening it seemed, having taken to rearranging the plants in Mycroft’s borders for maximum effect with height and colour. Mycroft watched him as he added a few more to the herb bed he had found under the kitchen window. “Gregory?”

“Hm?”

“I am sorry to intrude on your therapeutic planting but I have made you tea. And I want to speak to you.” Greg sat back on his heels and took off the gardening gloves, accepting the tea from Mycroft’s hand. “It looks lovely, thank you,” Mycroft said appreciatively and Greg looked up at him with a grin.

“Glad you like it. So...what’s on your mind?” 

“I have been pondering something at length.”

“Oh, what would that be?”

“I think...I may have a solution to your conundrum.”

“My what?”

“Your conundrum, your puzzle...Whether or not to return to Sherrinford Primary next semester.”

“Ah, ‘k, so what have you come up with?” Greg turned his full attention on Mycroft, eyes alight with curiosity.

“A job.”

“A job? Doing what? Am I about to be offered a post as your full-time live-in gardener?”

Mycroft laughed. “Why on earth would I need to do that, considering you already enjoy such a position unpaid? No, I think I have a much better proposition. Well, I obviously cannot completely guarantee that the job is yours but...I would very much like it if you would consider it.”

“Come on then, don’t keep me in suspense. What is it? Where?”

“I had my Finance Manager review our budgets last week. We have also been reviewing our staffing at the Museum as a result. Following this, I have been in talks with our Personnel Department with a view to taking more people on. Our Education Department is woefully understaffed and we cannot deliver the quality or quantity of workshops and outreaches that the local schools are requesting. It is an area that has long been neglected. As such…” Mycroft took a nervous breath, “I cannot come right out and offer you a job. We are obligated by law to advertise the posts first but…”

“But?”

“I suggest you go in for one of the positions, Gregory.” 

“Me?”

“Yes, you. I shall even help you construct a CV...”

“I...what makes you think I’d be good enough?”

“You have a love of history, you know the museum of old, you are familiar with the collections, and you are a good teacher. I am sure you could offer a lot to the job. However, while I would love to be able to offer it to you immediately, I am afraid protocol would have to be followed and you would have to apply just like everyone else. I would of course not be the sole arbiter either but...I should imagine my preferences would carry weight. However, would it interest you?”

“Actually, yes it would. You think I could do it?”

“Yes, Gregory, I do. I think you would be an asset to the Museum and its staff, and it should give you the best of both worlds, working with children but not requiring the volume of work that comes with being a class teacher. We would also be seeing each other every day. Will you consider it?” 

“Yes, I’ll certainly do that.”

“I was also hoping...that you would consider something else as well…”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I...I am lonely, Gregory, and I think you are too. After all we’ve been through, after what we’ve learned and accepted about each other, would you consider moving in here, with me? Ditch your flat and come here, so we can continue to get to know each other…or not. Keep your flat but move here, just in case it doesn’t work between us...”

Greg sat back, stunned. “I...um…really? You sure?”

“Yes, I am certain.Think about it, please. I will not insist….”

“I don’t need to think about it, Myc.”

“You...you don’t?”

“Nope, it’s a no-brainer for me. When can I move in?” Greg smiled, got to his feet and came over to Mycroft, gathering him in for a hug. “I can’t wait,” he admitted. “Being here with you, waking up to you every day, eating meals with you...chatting, making tea, sitting out in the garden…” He blushed. “Shit...I wanted to do this for you...but my flat is crappy...I wanted to suggest moving in together but...well, my flat is an embarrassment…”

Mycroft smiled. “I understand. Mine is the logical choice for us both. Look, if this is successful, if it works between us, then we could look at buying somewhere together. Our choice. I admit to no sentimental attachment to this place. It is simply a house.”

“Yeah, okay, be happy to do that. Somewhere for us.” Greg grinned.”Bring it on…”

“I too must admit to some eagerness for this to happen. I do hope I do not disappoint you, Gregory. Are you completely sure?”

“Damn it all, myc, of course I’m sure. I have no idea what will happen, I’m not a fortune teller, but I know I want to try.”

Mycroft felt his heart swell with joy. “This will be beneficial to us both I feel.”

“Soulmates, love. No more being lonely.” Greg leaned in for a kiss. “Here’s to whatever the future brings.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, Mycroft is in his early thirties in this AU and Greg is early forties, Sherlock (when he appears) is in his twenties. I've worked in and visited many museums in the UK, and this one came to mind after a rather gorgeous guy visited my workspace and I did a double take, because damn he looked so like Rupert Graves it was a sin. So to the guy with gorgeous brown eyes and silvering hair and a grin that should have had all the ladies (and men too) swooning at your feet, this is my tribute. You and Rupert are my muses...


End file.
